


Between Heaven and Earth

by AgneasArrow (Victorianas_Guillotine_Emporium)



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Crisis of Faith, Developing Relationship, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Let's Talk about Trauma, Post-War, but also domestic fluff I guess?, maybe Lorenz is our friend after all, no beta we die like Glenn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:48:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26873950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Victorianas_Guillotine_Emporium/pseuds/AgneasArrow
Summary: Sylvain put his arm around Mercedes, trying to comfort her and to shield her from any chill in the air. Was it him, or was it getting colder? “Hey. I’m not the most pious guy, but as long as the Professor is here, we can know the goddess is technically with us. Right? That’s something.”“Well, I suppose that’s true. But that makes me have even more questions than I did before!”Maybe he should stop trying to console her before he could make it any worse. Sylvain knew what it was like, though. Living with those nagging questions in the back of your head that you couldn’t make go away, or the little devil on your shoulder who just wanted to burn it all down.Sylvain and Mercedes are struggling to figure out their next steps and how to make sense of it all after the war, but at least they're in good company.
Relationships: Annette Fantine Dominic/Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/My Unit | Byleth, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Sylvain Jose Gautier/Mercedes von Martritz
Comments: 42
Kudos: 56





	1. Prologue: There Used to be More Fraldariuses

**Author's Note:**

> Hello lovely people! Sometimes after many years and many fandoms, you just need to start fresh with a new account. This is my first Fire Emblem fic! Please feel free to point out any glaring spelling or grammatical errors, but please be gentle. I have a bit of a buffer built up on this story and I hope to post regularly, but I am currently a first semester graduate student so I will do my best. :)
> 
> Please be aware that while this isn't the focus of the fic, Glenn's death and his loved ones' grief will be discussed. And while there are going to be lighter moments, neither Sylvain or Mercedes is in a great place right now. Later chapters may contain minor/background pairings (Lorenz/Dorothea, implied Ingrid/Yuri or Ashe/Marianne) that I didn't want to tag right now because I don't want to lure somebody in with promises of those sweet, sweet ultra rarepairs, and then crush their hopes with a ton of Sylvcedes. If any of this is not for you, I get it and I hope we can still be friends. Rated M for language and to be on the safe side. 
> 
> Thank you!

Sylvain had been in Fhirdiad the day King Lambert and his entourage left for Duscur, running an errand on behalf of Margrave Gautier. The King’s party was supposed to leave around ten in the morning. At nine fifteen, Sylvain was sitting on Glenn’s bed, helping with his morning-of packing list. 

“Toothbrush?” 

Sylvain opened the nightstand drawer, locating the toothbrush and throwing it to Glenn, who caught it and added it to his small trunk. “Toothbrush.” 

“Second spare pair of gaiters?”

Sylvain rolled over onto his stomach, dangling over the bed to pull out a crate and pick through the assorted footwear. “Gaiters!” He tied them in a knot and aimed for Glenn’s face this time when he threw. Glenn caught them anyway. 

(Increasingly, whenever Sylvain reflected on that morning, he found himself wondering if Glenn really had looked that much like Felix, or if his memory of Glenn was slowly decaying and his mind trying to patch the holes with an image of not-quite-Felix.)

“Ingrid’s scarf?” Glenn prompted him. 

Sylvain looked inside the drawer again before asking, “Where?” 

“Inside my pillow case.” 

“Wow. That’s pretty weird, Glenn. Do you, like, sniff her scarf?” Sylvain chuckled, reaching for the pillow anyway. “Do you j--”  
  
“SHUT UP, GAUTIER! SHE GAVE IT TO ME SO I COULD CARRY HER FAVOR INTO BATTLE.” Glenn flushed bright red. That pasty white Fraldarius skin didn’t hide anything. “It’s romantic and stuff.” 

The redhead fell back on the bed, cackling madly. The truth was, he was jealous of Glenn. Not because Glenn got to marry Ingrid specifically; jealous that instead of being married off to some stranger who didn’t give a shit about him, Glenn had been presented the love of his life on a silver platter. Not only was he betrothed to their childhood friend, Glenn was a knight in service to King Lambert _and_ he was the same age as Sylvain. 

Sylvain didn’t believe in fairy tales. It was an odd existence, in a country so obsessed with fairy tales. It sat under his skin like a splinter he couldn’t pick out. And of course he still loved Glenn with his whole heart--he was like the older brother Sylvain wished he didn’t have!-- but damn if his charmed life didn’t rub salt in the wound.

And that was why he teased Glenn so much. Sylvain learned long ago that he could laugh, or he could cry. And Sylvain Jose Gautier would much rather laugh. 

“You’re the worst.” Glenn huffed, stomping over to the bed and snatching Ingrid’s scarf from Sylvain’s hands. He wrapped it tenderly around his own neck, before dragging his pillow off the bed and adding it to the top of his trunk. 

“Yeah, whatever.” Sylvain said, sitting up. “Hey, anything you want me to tell your family or Ingrid, if I see them before you do?”

Glenn shook his head. “No message.” He straightened up, closing and padlocking the trunk. He added carelessly, “Kiss them for me, if we find ourselves delayed.”

Sylvain fake-saluted him. “Can do!”

Glenn stopped suddenly, horrified. “If you kiss my fiancee anywhere below the cheekbones I’ll kill you. I know you, you’re a horny bastard.” 

“Alright, alright! You can be really mean, Glenn. You know that?” He whined. But there was no heat in Sylvain’s tone, and Glenn took no umbrage beyond a _humph_. Sylvain eased himself off the bed. “Want any help carrying your trunk down?” 

“Nope. I got it.” Glenn said gruffly. Sylvain was possessed with a sudden, amusing mental image of Glenn the crotchety old man. Or perhaps he’d have calmed down by then. Rodrigue Fraldarius was one of the nicest, calmest men around, and apparently he had been a real reprobate back in the day. “I’m just going to do a couple more things here first.” 

Sylvain knew when it was time for him to leave. He cracked his back, and wrapped his own cloak around himself, clapping Glenn on the shoulder as he left. “See you, Glenn.”

“Safe travel, Sylvain.”

He did not see Glenn again. No living person, except maybe Dimitri, knew what Glenn Fraldarius’ true final words had been. Sylvain suspected it had just been swearing, or perhaps wordless screams. If Dimitri remembered, he had no intention to share.

So when Felix, Rodrigue and Ingrid asked Sylvain what he and Glenn had said to each other that morning in Fhirdiad, he realized he was delivering Glenn’s last words. He was the final messenger. And it occurred to him that he had two choices: he could relay the whole “you’re a horny bastard” bit, or he could give them a slightly fictionalized yet useful account.

“I asked him if he wanted me to pass a message along to you all. He said, ‘No message. Kiss them for me, if we find ourselves delayed.’”

That was his answer, and he was sticking to it. In the nine years that had passed, he never changed his story.

To his credit, all three had seemed satisfied. Eventually Rodrigue and Ingrid opted to receive that last kiss by proxy. Rodrigue immediately, and Ingrid (in a fit of what could perhaps be termed “only-in-Fhargus chivalric romanticism”) a year from the date of Glenn’s death. As for Felix’s…Well, Sylvain figured he would just hold onto it until Felix wanted it. Which he had to admit, was pretty damn unlikely.

The only person Sylvain ever told the full truth about his last encounter with Glenn was Mercedes von Martritz, one night as they were sitting on the steps outside Garreg Mach’s cathedral in the wee hours of the morning. At first he didn’t know why he even bothered telling her. She had never known Glenn, and she barely knew Rodrigue before he died too--except that maybe some part of him _wanted_ Mercedes to tell him he had made the wrong choice. To tell him that he had fucked them over because Sylvain fucked everybody over, and that was just who he was as a person. 

He didn’t know why he would think that, either. Even as one part of his mind hurled insults at himself, he knew Mercedes would never. 

“Hmm. I see.” Mercedes said. “I think you did the right thing, Sylvain.”

“You do?”

“Mhm! You did the kindest thing you could. Sometimes caring for others is more important than the truth. It can be a hard call, but I think this one was clear enough.”

Sylvain fiddled with the hair at the back of his neck. It sounded oddly like she was praising him. “Sure, but…where’s the line?”

“Well, that’s a difficult question. But also, why does it matter right now? Give yourself some credit for trying to take care of your friends, Sylvain.”

“…If you think so.” Even if he wasn’t sure he believed her, it still felt good to hear it. He scooted closer, leaning his head on her shoulder. She rested her cheek against his hair. 

It was warmer than it had been the last few weeks, in that it wasn’t intolerable to sit outside after dark. By Sylvain’s standards (which were about twenty degrees cooler than a normal person’s standards), it was downright pleasant. People moved around Garreg Mach at all hours of the day and night, but the stairs leading down from the cathedral’s western terrace were secluded enough that they hadn’t seen another soul for two hours as they sat and talked. 

It was just him, Mercedes, and the sharp light of the stars on a moonless night. He tilted his face ever so slightly downward, chasing the smell of her perfume. She told him once that her perfume was a blend of lavender with sweet orange and clove, and yes he certainly smelled all that, but there was always something about Mercedes that smelled like brown sugar. Maybe it was because she did so much baking, but he suspected that it might just be something about her body chemistry. He was starting to feel like he might doze off on Mercedes’ shoulder when somebody coming out of the cathedral nearly tripped over them in the dark. He and Mercedes sprang apart. 

“Oh, goddess!” It was Marianne, clasping one hand over her heart and clinging to the wall behind herself. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, Marianne!” Mercedes exclaimed. “Did we scare you?” 

Marianne recovered, forcing her hand away from her chest to pat down her hair. “Well, yes, you did scare me a little bit, but you shouldn’t be sorry because I didn’t notice you two.” 

“Who are you looking for at this hour?” Sylvain asked, leaning back on his hands. “Ashe went to bed four hours ago.” He really should know better than to tease Marianne. Back in their Academy days she had outright said once that she wouldn’t have joined the Blue Lions if Lorenz hadn’t transferred first. Marianne was less shy and reclusive than she had been before, but she still didn’t seem to grasp why there might be other humans in the world who found her attractive. 

  
(Which really could have been listed in the dictionary as an example of dramatic irony, because Sylvain happened to know that back in happier times she could have had her pick of all hot singles in her area who had crushes on her at one point or another. Let’s see: there was Lorenz, Linhardt, Ignatz, Ashe, Ferdinand, Hilda, quite possibly Dimitri before he fell ass over teakettle in love with their _Professor._ Sure, the heart wants what it wants and Sylvain was in no position to judge, but come the fuck on, Dimitri.) 

Marianne blushed so hard they could see it in the dark. “No, I’m not looking for Ashe. I just don’t sleep well so I came to check on Dimitri, but he wasn’t in there, so I stuck around for a moment to pray, and then I stumbled over you two. I’m terribly sorry. ” 

“Heh. Well, funnily enough, we originally came up here to check on him too. One of the monks said he was with the Professor, and that she had made him go to bed.”

“Oh, well that’s good, I suppose.” 

“Marianne, I’ve been meaning to ask you something, if you don’t mind.” Mercedes interjected, rather abruptly.

“Uh...what's that?” 

“What do you think it means, the goddess giving her power to the Professor?” 

Marianne looked uncertain. “The goddess gave Saint Seiros her power too?” 

“It’s just that…” Mercedes shifted, fiddling with her apron. “There’s something about it that’s all very odd to me. Seiros was sent to establish the church. And there was that whole business in the Holy Tomb--the revelation that didn’t happen. What do you suppose it could all mean?” 

“We never really know the will of the goddess.” Marianne said softly. And Sylvain liked Marianne, he really did, but those kind of platitudes always made him want to scream. Marianne continued, “We can try, but not even Lady Rhea could have predicted why things play out the way they do, or what the goddess intends for us.” 

“...Could predict? Past tense?” 

“Um. I-um.” Poor Marianne could not be a worse actor if she tried, Sylvain thought. “I should try to sleep. I’m going to make sure Linhardt is fine. It looked like it hurt when Hubert dropped a Meteor spell on his head. Goodnight.” 

Which was...fifty percent bullshit. Sure, it had _looked_ like it hurt when Hubert “dropped a Meteor spell on Linhardt’s head” at Gronder Field, as Marianne so elegantly put it. But Linhardt shrugged the hit off. For a tiny thing, he could power through magical attacks the way Dedue could shrug off axe blows. If anything, he was merely insulted that his old classmate would target him over Lorenz, who had been equally in striking range and presented “a much more credible threat than little old me.” 

“Oh. Well, goodnight, Marianne.” Mercedes said, clearly taken aback by Marianne’s response. 

Marianne turned on her heel and fled into the night with a tiny wave to Sylvain, which he returned. Mercedes sighed. “She thinks Lady Rhea is dead…” 

“She might.” Sylvain agreed. 

Mercedes twirled the chain of the Rafail Gem around, blue stones flashing in the low light. “What do you think, Sylvain?” He heard the unspoken pleading in that question. There was no good answer he could give her, not really. But the best thing he could give her was honesty. Which was simply what she deserved, since the only thing she had ever asked him for was to know his true mind. 

“I don’t know.” He was the one to sigh this time. “If I was Edelgard? She would have been dead for five years already, from a purely strategic perspective. I would have paraded her head on a spike all over Fodlan. But if she has Rhea captive and hasn’t killed her, why haven’t we heard demands? Why hasn’t she held Rhea over our heads? I suppose we’ll find out when we get to Enbarr. And if Rhea is alive, and Edelgard _isn’t_ holding her as a bargaining chip… then what does Rhea know that’s keeping her alive?” 

“Yes, that makes sense.” Mercedes let go of the necklace, propping her chin up on her hands. “I’m worried about her, but I also have so many things I want to ask her.” 

Sylvain put his arm around Mercedes, trying to comfort her and to shield her from any chill in the air. Was it him, or was it getting colder? “Hey. I’m not the most pious guy, but as long as the Professor is here, we can know the goddess is technically with us. Right? That’s something.” 

“Well, I suppose that’s true. But that makes me have even more questions than I did before!”

Maybe he should stop trying to console her before he could make it any worse. Sylvain knew what it was like, though. Living with those nagging questions in the back of your head that you couldn’t make go away, or the little devil on your shoulder who just wanted to burn it all down. 

“I’m sorry, Mercedes.” 

She brought her arm up under his, hugging him back. “It’s okay, Sylvain. I’m glad you’re here with me.”

(Whether it had been burnt to ash on his body or blown away in the wind, nobody ever did find that scarf Ingrid had given to Glenn.) 


	2. Thank You, Lorenz, But Our Songstress is in Another Castle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But who was keeping track of how long it had been since Edelgard died? Certainly not Sylvain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, folks! Thank you so much for the kind response to the prologue; I really appreciate it. This turned out to be a rather Mercedes-lite chapter, because of the story's structure. But, I hope you all enjoy getting to hang out with Dorothea, Felix, and Ingrid. Think of it as slow burn, but for feels!

Dimitri left the monastery eight days after the death of Edelgard to tend to business in Fhirdiad, taking Dedue and Ingrid with him. But they all knew the trio would return soon. At first, it felt no different than if the three of them had gone on patrol, and the Blue Lions would pick right up where they left off. Byleth disappeared into her work, spending hours in council with Seteth and Linhardt, who had appointed himself the Archbishop's interim secretary for reasons only explainable as “morbid curiosity.” 

The rest of them…well, they waited for marching orders. Dorothea suckered Ashe, Annette, Mercedes, and Yuri (by promising him it was “for the children”) into preparing a puppet show about singing goats or whatever for the orphans staying at the monastery. The next thing they knew, everybody was weirdly invested in the project. Sylvain even stayed up late a few nights helping Gilbert carve and paint the damn goat marionettes. 

_What else were they supposed to do?_ Sylvain asked himself, as he glued fluff on a baby goat puppet the size of his palm. It wasn’t like they could just go home. They would be called upon to fight again soon. 

(Sixteen days after the death of Edelgard, Goat Opera enjoyed a successful world premiere. The whole Blue Lions class, as well as Seteth, attended and took seats among the eight year olds. Felix enjoyed himself entirely too much, and gave the whole performance a glowing review of, “Relevant and timely theatre. The best part was when Annette pretended to be a goat.” Which was the whole thing.)

The day after Goat Opera premiered, a message from Fhirdiad arrived, and Lorenz was summoned into the Archbishop’s office. When he emerged, Lorenz had a job. He was to return to Leicester in all haste, and serve as the go-between for King Dimitri and the former Alliance Lords. There was work to be done. 

Nineteen days after the death of Edelgard, Lorenz packed up everything he had with him at the monastery, and strapped Thyrsus on his back like he was going into battle. All of the remaining Blue Lions and Knights of Seiros came down to the market to see him off. There was no concrete plan for when he would return. 

“Goodbye, Lorenz.” Mercedes said, next to Sylvain. Lorenz was tall enough that even Mercedes had to stand on her toes to give him one of those idealized chin-on-shoulder hugs. “Take care of yourself.” 

He hugged her back warmly. “Oh, don’t fret about me. It is an honor to serve King Dimitri in my old homeland!” 

“Still.” She pulled away from him, pressing a cloth wrapped package into his hands. “Ashe and I made you some meat pies for the road.” 

“What she’s saying is they’re good, so you’d better actually eat them.” Sylvain added. Damn it, he wanted meat pie too. 

“You didn’t have to, but of course I’ll eat them.” Lorenz turned to tuck the pies into one of his saddle bags. 

“Hold on!” Said Annette from the back of the group. “Ashe and Mercie made hand pies? There’s some left, right?” 

“Yes, there’s plenty left!” Said Ashe. 

Lorenz and Sylvain eyeballed each other as Mercedes tried to shuffle out of the way so somebody else could reach him. This was fine. It was fine! Pretty much all of them (Mercedes included) had bitten Lorenz’ head off once or twice back in the day. It wasn’t like Sylvain was the only one. Water under the bridge!...

Lorenz still brought his hand up first. “Sylvain.” 

“Lorenz.” They shook hands, patting each other on the back twice, very sharply. _Pat. Pat._

A duly awkward farewell. 

The last person to wish him goodbye was Dorothea, who had been hanging back holding his horse’s reins. He held out his hand, in a way that made Sylvain unsure if he was reaching for the reins or permission to stroke her face. “Ah, and Dorothea--” 

She thrust the reins at him. “Bye, Lorenz.” 

It was fast, but Sylvain saw the expression that flickered over his face. He took her hand, reins still clenched in her fist, and briefly pressed her knuckles to his lips. “Until next time, then.” 

( _Welp. Still not something a normal person would do_ , Sylvain thought, _but full points for improvement, Lorenz._ ) 

Sylvain lingered in the market, buying Bergamot tea after Lorenz disappeared down the first dip in the road past the monastery gates, and the group began wandering their separate ways. Dorothea, he noticed, was still standing in the middle of the square as well; right where Lorenz had left her. She looked stricken.

In an instant, he remembered the Great Bridge of Myrddin. He remembered Dorothea’s expression when a weak, bloodied Lorenz staggered over to Kingdom lines, leaning heavily on the Archbishop and Marianne’s shoulders. He remembered listening to her crying. War was hard on them all, but maybe he had been so focused on Dimitri that he hadn’t really seen how much Dorothea’s mental state deteriorated. 

Sylvain felt a stab of guilt. Was he a shitty friend?

He was about to do or say something when Linhardt stepped in from nowhere, wrapping a friendly arm around her waist. “Come along, Dora. I’m going to do some fishing for dinner. Keep me company?” 

Whatever Dorothea said in response wasn’t audible from where Sylvain was standing, but she put her arm through Linhardt’s and allowed herself to be guided into the monastery. 

And the sad thing was, Sylvain knew how she felt. Not over Lorenz specifically--that would be weird-- but in a general, extracted sense. The feeling that the world was spinning forward without you, and you were being left behind. Or perhaps the world had stopped turning, yet you were still hurtling ahead.

But the guilt didn’t go away. And he started to wonder whether Goat Opera had really been for the children at all. 

The next day at dinner Dorothea was all smiles again, and indicated she might have a few ideas for a sequel to her acclaimed, goaty masterpiece. Maybe Sylvain was just projecting after all. 

Twenty two days after the death of Edelgard, Byleth sent Sylvain, Mercedes, Annette, Felix, Ashe, Marianne, Hapi, and their respective battalions to deal with a group of rogue Imperial soldiers who were raiding villages in Ordelia territory. Even with such a small company, once they found the former Imperials, now brigands…it wasn’t much of a fight. Some part of Sylvain thought he might feel better with a lance in his hand, doing something of value, but he didn’t. 

They were the Kingdom’s elite killing machines, facing one or two companies who couldn’t even figure out who their commanding officers were. The majority of the brigands surrendered once they saw they were hopelessly outmatched, and were turned over to local authorities. And as for those who didn’t…

Even Felix looked depressed that evening at their camp site, as they served themselves from a communal pot of rabbit stew Ashe prepared. 

“This is great food, Ashe.” Annette said, stirring the contents of her bowl around and not eating much of it. 

“Mhm, excellent!” Mercedes agreed, completely dead behind the eyes. 

“I wonder how Lysithea is doing?” Marianne added, in the exact same tone the other two women used to complement Ashe’s cooking. 

Ashe nodded. “Thank you. It was my pleasure.” Ashe hadn’t even brought the Talthum Bow with him. He didn’t need it. 

It was still summertime warm in Alliance territory, and a cloudless night, so they decided to set their bedrolls up in the open and stargaze. Hapi turned out to be rather adept at astronomy, and pointed out a number of constellations. She also plunked her bedroll down at an awkward angle directly between Ashe and Marianne.

“Oop, excuse me, guys. Looks like there’s plenty of room right here!” 

Ashe sat bolt upright, opened and closed his mouth a few times like he was about to say something sassy, and laid back down. Sylvain faked a yawn to stifle his laughter. 

Hapi rattled on for some time about the stars, which was interesting in and of itself, but Sylvain found himself zoning in and out, staring at those tiny pinpricks of fire in the black void. His mind wandered back to something his mother used to say: the night sky was a blanket the goddess drew up over the world to protect them from monsters while all the creatures slept. It was perhaps a nicer thought than the reality, which was when night fell humanity got to see its true place in the universe.

( _“That can’t be true! If the sky is a blanket, then what are the stars?” Little Sylvain asked._ _  
_

_"Holes in the blanket. Stop asking questions and go to sleep, Sylvain.” Said his mother._ )

“Sylvain?” A voice whispered to his left. Mercedes had rolled over onto her side so she could look at him, pillowing her head on her arm. “Penny for your thoughts?” 

He turned over onto his side as well. “Not much. I was thinking about my mother, I guess.” 

“I see. Do you miss her?” 

“Sort of?” He shifted around in his bedroll like an inchworm, trying to move his blankets along the ground cloth closer to Mercedes. It...kinda worked. “I mean, she’s my mother, but...” 

“But you don’t want to go home and see her?” 

He nodded. “Pretty much. Not right now.” 

Sylvain’s mother wasn’t the only thing he’d have to face in Margrave Gautier’s castle. And besides, if he went home...Well, he’d have to leave Mercedes behind. But he couldn’t just blurt that out, not tonight. “What are your plans?” 

Mercedes sighed. “I’m going to stay at the monastery for now. I always wanted to serve the church, but I don’t think I really have anywhere else to go.” She frowned. 

Sylvain shifted around again, extending his lower arm out from his bedroll towards Mercedes. He twitched his fingers, trying to communicate his offer. She reached out as well, lacing their fingers together between them. 

“Goodnight, Sylvain.” 

Twenty five days after the death of Edelgard, once they returned to the monastery, Mercedes suggested to Sylvain that they break into the sauna after hours. Sylvain was quickly learning something which he suspected all along. Despite being sweet, gentle, pious, and maybe even a little motherly, Mercedes was a far cry from prudish or detached. That suggestion turned out to be the highlight of Sylvain’s week. But Seteth could never find out, or they would both be scrubbing the sauna with toothbrushes for days. 

Twenty six days after the death of Edelgard, Dorothea organized an encore performance of Goat Opera. Sylvain wasn’t sure if he was losing his mind, or if he was starting to come around to Felix’s point of view on its artistic value. On the other hand, he was now thoroughly convinced that Felix was biased because Annette was playing the young, pretty goat who found love. Mercedes was relegated to playing the Annette-goat’s mother, which was Some Shit if you asked Sylvain.

...Yep, Sylvain was losing his mind. And for some reason, they all still seemed to be waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

Twenty eight days after the death of Edelgard, Dimitri, Dedue, and Ingrid returned to Garreg Mach. Byleth put on the Archbishop’s vestments to greet them in the audience chamber. The illusion of solemnity lasted about five minutes, before the leader of the Church of Seiros and the King of Fódlan hugged each other so hard her feet came off the ground. They all heard her back make a popping noise and Byleth laugh--actually laugh!--as she kicked midair. Dimitri was appalled at himself, which only made her laugh harder.

Lorenz arrived back in Garreg Mach to meet with Dimitri much sooner than any of them expected, thirty days after the death of Edelgard (but who was keeping track of how long it had been since Edelgard died? Certainly not Sylvain). Sylvain was in the stables when he arrived, grooming Ingrid’s pegasus because he desperately needed a job. _Any_ job. Lorenz had barely dismounted his horse, reins still in hand, when Dorothea came barreling around the corner from the gardens.

“Laurie!” She all but leapt on him, flinging her arms around his neck with seemingly no regard for how unconducive his armor was. Sylvain had seen people being grappled more gently than whatever Dorothea was doing.

“Dorothea!” Lorenz wrapped his free arm around her waist, shooting a confused look at Sylvain. “There there, I’ve got you. Whatever happened?”

_What did you do?_ He mouthed furiously at Sylvain.

Sylvain shook his head. _Nothing!_

“I can’t stay here any longer, Laurie. I can’t.”

Sylvain suddenly felt like he was intruding on something very private. He quietly gave Ingrid’s pegasus a pat on the nose, deciding she was _clean enough_ and he would come back later to finish the job. He tried to make a leisurely exit from the stables while still holding a curry comb. 

“You want to leave the monastery?” Lorenz asked, rubbing circles into Dorothea’s upper back.

Dorothea nodded. “I missed you.”

“…I missed you too. Come, we can figure something out.”

Three days later, it was decided. Dorothea would return with Lorenz to Leicester. There was certainly enough work for two, and perhaps Dorothea with her Empire background and natural charm would excel at diplomacy. Regardless, weren’t two mages better than one in the event of an attack?

Dorothea was out of limbo, on her way to her new life as Dorothea Arnault: Fhargan diplomat.

“And you didn’t hear it from me, but…” Ingrid told Sylvain and Felix later that afternoon, as they sat in the Cardinals’ Room chatting; Sylvain with his feet propped up in an empty chair, Felix folded in on himself the way he always sat, and Ingrid slowly grazing from a waxed paper packet of jerky she had brought upstairs with her. “I know Dimitri and the Professor have been talking about who is going to rule all those territories with no lords. Dorothea is definitely on the short list. They’ve pencilled Ashe in for the new Count Gaspard, and Dimitri would love for Yuri to take over Rowe’s seat. But, you know, good luck getting that to happen. Yuri will never go for it. I told Dimitri as much.”

“We’ll take your word for it?” Sylvain said. Because no, he was not privy to the inner thoughts of Yuri Leclerc. He hadn't known until now Ingrid was all that close with Yuri, either. He thought their entire relationship revolved around meat, and not in the fun way.

Felix snorted. “Good for Yuri. I can admire his style.”

“Wait, hold up, how did you learn all this?” Sylvain asked. Now that he’d had a second to think about it, he had questions.

Ingrid looked at him waspishly. “Because Dedue and I let Dimitri confide in us sometimes. You should try it.”

“So you’re telling me that Dimitri tells you two all the juicy state secrets while you’re holed up together in Fhirdiad, while Felix and I get left out in the cold at Garreg Mach?” Sylvain hesitated. “Except, you know, Fhirdiad is way colder than Garreg Mach.” 

“Mhm.” Ingrid nodded.

“Well…Damn it, Dimitri!” Sylvain pounded his fist into the table. 

Ingrid sighed, rubbing her forehead. “Dimitri is sensitive, Sylvain! Maybe if you didn’t rag on him constantly for that one time he gave a girl a dagger, he’d tell you things!”

“Yeah, and that girl was Edelgard! Somebody has to keep the boy in line, sensitive or not!”

“That has nothing to do with anything!” Ingrid exclaimed, nearly choking on a bite of jerky. She rounded on Felix. “And you’re just as bad! You called him a boar for five and a half years!”

Felix spluttered. “What did I do to get dragged into this? You yell at Dimitri all the time too, Ingrid!”

“What? That’s not the point, _Felix_!” Ingrid was shouting by now.

“Yes it is! I guess we all just chastise Dimitri constantly!” Felix threw his hands up, indignant.

“I CAN YELL THINGS TOO!” Sylvain shouted.

They all fell silent. Ingrid casually held out her package of jerky, like they hadn’t all been screaming thirty seconds prior. “Want some, Felix? It’s flavored with sage.”

“Whatever.” He took a piece of jerky anyway and began to nibble on it. Felix had been someone who took his sweet time with food for as long as Sylvain could remember. “Not bad.”

“Can I try?” Sylvain asked.

“You don’t like jerky, Sylvain.” Ingrid said, rolling her eyes as she ripped a chunk off the end of her own piece and held it out for him.

“Yeah, but I like feeling included!” He took the dried meat morsel and popped it into his mouth.

Yep! He still didn’t care for jerky.

“How are things around here?” Ingrid asked.

“Boring. But you did miss Goat Opera.” Said Felix.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Goat. Opera.” Felix repeated slower and clearer, like the problem was Ingrid’s hearing and not the lack of sense those two words made in conjunction with each other. “Also.” He took another contemplative bite of his jerky, shifting it to the inside of his cheek before continuing. “On the subject of Dimitri, how long do you think he and the professor have been fucking? I can’t tell.”

“FELIX!” 

Sylvain tapped his lip, thinking. “Unless something _real weird_ happened, we’ve only got a three or four month margin of error. But if I had to put gold on it, I’d say...right before or after we took fort Merceus. Like, right after. That’s my vote for when Dimitri gave her a dagger.” Sylvain made a lewd gesture to make his meaning perfectly clear. 

Felix snickered, which was the closest you were ever going to get to a hearty belly laugh from him. “‘Gave her a dagger.’ I need to remember that one.” 

Ingrid smacked her forehead so hard Sylvain thought she might punch through her own skull. “…Why I am I friends with either of you?”

“Because you love us!” Sylvain said, singsong. “You love us thiiiiiis much!” He held up his hands at arms’ length to indicate a precise amount of love.

At the exact same time Felix retorted, “I don’t know. Why are you?”

It was nice to take a moment, just the three of them together. It almost felt like old times.

It didn’t last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well hi! 
> 
> Yes, I am aware this chapter was basically just "Blue Lions hugging" porn. I refuse to apologize for Art. 
> 
> For the purposes of this fic, I've decided to treat a character's other possible A-ranks outside of their main pairing as people who they feel a particular affinity for. So Mercedes and Lorenz can move past that disastrous C support and be nice to each other once he matures as a person, Sylvain sees Dorothea as a kindred spirit, Marianne has a thing for Ashe but considers Lorenz her BFF, ect. 
> 
> Mood music for this chapter, courtesy of Dorothea, is ["Thank You, Mario, but Our Princess is in Another Castle"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JZtDaba0Xm0)by the Mountain Goats. Because...goat opera. And Nintendo. Thanks again!


	3. A Brief Inquiry into Monastery Relationships, Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You know, if you can sleep the night with a lover without “sleeping with them” first, that’s a real relationship.” 
> 
> “That sounds made up, Ashe.” 
> 
> Ashe shrugged. “Suit yourself. I don’t make the rules.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LIIIIIIIVE! 
> 
> So yeah, I apologize for the massive break between updates, in case anybody was waiting for one. As I mentioned in the first chapter, I'm currently a history grad student, and I had to turn in a *massive* annotated bibliography on a topic that was surprisingly difficult to research. On the upside, if anyone wants to chat about 18th century espionage, hit me up. I have **opinions.** XD Hopefully I'll be able to update again before my final research is paper is due.

In the week that followed, people started leaving the monastery en masse. Every time someone left, the dwindling Lions who were staying behind gathered in the market to send them off. Thirty five days after the death of Edelgard, with Dimitri and the Archbishop’s permission, Ashe set out for Gaspard to see his brother and sister. Soon after, the Church of Seiros officially sold good old Dorte to Marianne, and the two departed for Edmund territory with promises to visit soon. Linhardt randomly vanished for days to attend to urgent business he wouldn’t tell anybody but Byleth about. Gilbert was to join Dimitri’s entourage. Seteth and Flayn planned to take a well deserved, extended vacation to the Rhodos Coast at some point in the near future.

Thirty seven days after the death of Edelgard, Sylvain helped Dorothea climb up onto the back of Lorenz’s massive warhorse for the first leg of their trip, down the mountain from Garreg Mach. Apparently Dorothea had never learned how to ride a horse, and somehow managed to make it through an entire war riding in the back of supply wagons without any of them cottoning on. She would have to ride on her own loaned mare once they were on leveler ground, but trying to descend from the monastery on your first ride was just asking for a broken neck. 

Sylvain sighed, patting the warhorse’s flank as Dorothea shifted around, trying to find her balance. Lorenz’s saddle was made for a much larger knight in full plate armor, so there was just barely enough room for both of them.

  
  
“Take care of each other, you crazy kids.” _I’m sorry I wasn’t a better friend, Dorothea._ Sylvain added in his head. _I’m sorry I didn’t see how bad it was for you._

Lorenz rolled his eyes. Dorothea laughed. “Oh, Lorenz and I are going to go on great adventures! Aren’t we, Laurie?”

She already had both arms wrapped around his rib cage to hold on while in the saddle, but she went from interlocking her hands to splaying them out on his breastplate, in more of an embrace. “Maybe I’ll write to you about our dashing exploits sometimes!” 

Sylvain forced a smile. “Well, I’ll look forward to it!” 

A pegasus rider arrived at Garreg Mach later that evening carrying messages from up north, including a letter from Sylvain’s father. It was with great trepidation that he opened said letter. Most of it was polite enough, but his father insinuated he’d better be doing something damn important in Garreg Mach to keep him there more than a month after the war officially ended. Sylvain crumpled the letter, resolving he would answer in the morning. He spent most of the night wallowing in his own guilt. 

_Why are you still here, Sylvain_? He knew perfectly well why he was still there. 

It was just…he couldn’t bear the thought of going back to live with his parents, in that cold echoing castle. Or climbing the stairs Miklan pushed him down on his way to bed every night. Or eating his meals under a massive tapestry of the Gautier crest. Not to mention that if he went home and his father greeted him with some variation of, “Where’s the lance?” Well, Sylvain had no idea how he would react. And that scared him.

But all that aside, Mercedes was staying at the monastery, for the time being. They had vowed to protect each other. It seemed like staying was the most effective way for them to hold up their respective ends of that bargain.

Did he realize perfectly well that lingering around the monastery was a temporary fix? That at some point in the near future one of them would have to leave, and he’d be forced to face the world without her?

Shut up.

Sylvain spent the rest of the evening and half the night in the library. He wasn’t really doing anything. He was just sitting in the library because nobody would ever look for him there. He probably hadn’t whiled away hours in the library since that one time Bernadetta forgot her manuscript on one of the tables, and he’d read the whole thing in a single binge. 

Bernadetta. One of the benefits of living your worst nightmares from a young age was that it was fairly rare for his mind to find a _new_ image to lock in on, and torment him with while he slept. But that was one of them. He could still recall the whole thing with crystal clarity: standing on the field at Gronder, fighting Petra Macneary when he felt the sure of heat at his back, and heard Bernadetta’s agonized shrieks cutting above the noise of battle. 

Only a charge on Edelgard by Dimitri and the Archbishop, and a quick reaction from Felix and Marianne saved her life. And even then, her injuries were severe. 

He remembered seeing the horror and disgust in Petra’s eyes as she saw the flames behind him, and it dawned on her that Edelgard gave the order to light the ballista turret up with Bernadetta in it. He remembered the disgust he felt towards himself too, when he used that moment of vulnerability to lunge and wound Petra with his lance. 

It was past eleven when he heard footfalls on the creaking wooden floor behind him. He already knew it was Mercedes by her gait. Her tread was actually quite heavy and flat footed, and she almost always wore soft, shearling lined boots that made her feet scuff the ground. “There you are!” 

He half turned around in his chair. “Sorry, were you looking for me?” 

Mercedes gave him a worn out little smile, shaking her head. “Only for a while.” She pulled a chair further down the reading table over next to him, easing into the seat like she was sore. She probably was. Sylvain’s knees had started popping when he was twenty-two. War will do that to a person. “What have you been doing?” 

He gestured around himself, to the three or four novels he had tried to read and abandoned when they all failed to be sufficiently distracting. “I’ve been here.” 

“I see.” She pulled one of the books over, flipping through to see the title page. _The Luna Knight_. “It’s better the way Ashe tells it, anyway.” 

“I don’t think I ever heard Ashe tell a story.” 

“Well, you’ll have to ask him next time we see him.” She closed the book again, pushing it away from them both. 

“Your turn. What have you been working on with the Professor?” With Linhardt gone doing whatever, Mercedes had taken over as the Professor’s assistant. 

“Well. I think somebody’s going to have to make a trip to Zanado very soon.” She stared down at her hand, rubbing a spot of ink on her finger.

  
  
“How come?” Sylvain asked. It was a fairly light question, but they both understood the vast implications of _going to Zanado_. Mercedes opened and closed her mouth, starting to say something, and then changing her mind. Eventually she shook her head. 

“I’m not sure.” She cleared her throat, still not meeting Sylvain’s eyes. “I’ve been thinking a lot today. About Lorenz.”

  
  
He frowned. It wasn’t like Mercedes to change the subject. Or perhaps...this wasn’t changing the subject. “Okay. What about him?” 

Mercedes traced patterns on the worn table. “I knew Dorothea was going to leave with him eventually. I remember what happened after the battle at the bridge of Myrddin. Marianne and I were deciding who was going to take the first shift riding in the infirmary wagon with, because if his wounds opened up again and he was alone, he could have bled to death before anybody noticed. But while we were still talking about it, Dorothea jumped in and insisted on tending to him herself. And all I could think about was how I once told him he lived a sad life.” 

“Yeah, but...he did live a pretty sad life. You can’t beat yourself up about that!” Sylvain protested.  
  


She chuckled a little, looking up towards the rafters. “Well yes, he _did._ I wasn’t exactly wrong.” Her face grew somber again. “But there was a moment where I thought for sure one of us would end up killing him. I...I wonder sometimes, what would have happened if we encountered him on the battlefield five years ago, like Ashe’s adoptive father. Or those heretical Western church groups we used to fight. ” 

Sylvain felt a shadow come over his heart. “Or Miklan?” 

She shook her head. “No, not like Miklan at all. Miklan was actually terrorizing innocent people. Including you.” She sighed heavily. Sylvain wasn’t so sure how much he counted as “innocent,” but he wasn’t going to interrupt her. “I’m saying... I don’t know, really. I’m saying it didn’t bother me then, but now it does. And...I think you and I both know that Edelgard had reasons for why she did what she did.” 

He stroked her upper back. “Yeah. Of course she did. Everyone has a _reason_ why they act the way they do.” He mostly managed to keep the bitterness out of his voice. 

Forty days after the death of Edelgard, Yuri declared that if Hapi and the Archbishop were _absolutely, positively_ sure everything would be fine in Abyss in his absence, he would ride north with Dimitri’s entourage and go spend time with his mother. He also might have accepted a commission as Dimitri’s new head of intelligence, but he was not at liberty to confirm or deny such accusations.

  
(He totally had.) 

But hey, at least Ingrid was delighted. She seemed to see this as some great step towards luring Yuri out into above-ground society. And Sylvain was forced to admit that yes, maybe they really were that close and he just hadn’t noticed.

In the same meeting, Felix declared that even though he was fully invested in rooting out the last of their enemies, he couldn’t justify leaving Fraldarius in the hands of his father’s retainers any longer. He would be leaving as well to investigate, quote, “Just how much shit the old man left for me to shovel.” Byleth and Dimitri gave Felix their blessing and offered to muster him out of the army, but he refused a formal discharge. 

Sylvain would miss seeing his sour face every day. Mercedes seemed upset by his imminent departure as well, pulling him aside after the meeting concluded. 

“Can I give you a hug, Felix?” She asked.  
  


Felix pursed his lips. “Just the one. Don’t make a habit of it.” 

She pulled him against herself, doing the motherly little affectation where she smoothed down his clothes while hugging him. 

“Take care out there, Felix. Be good to yourself.” 

“Hmph. Worry about your safety.” Felix let one hand rest awkwardly on her waist. His eyes fell on Sylvain, over her shoulder. Sylvain arched his eyebrow, trying not to crack up.

Felix skittered away like a cat trying to avoid being picked up as soon as Mercedes let him go. 

Forty two days after the death of Edelgard, Sylvain was tasked with taking inventory of everything in the pantry. While their supply chain improved recently, there was still an awful lot of rice and salted meat, and very little fresh produce. Keeping tabs on it all was a necessity. Sylvain was sitting on a giant barrel of brined loach, trying to decipher the previous week’s inventory, with the door propped open for light. Meanwhile, Mercedes and Annette were out in the main kitchen, working their way through the post-dinner dishes. 

The women had been chatting while they worked, when Mercedes asked the fateful question. “Will you be sad to see Felix leave, Annie?” Her lilting voice light and teasing.

A dish clattered off of something. “We _ee_ ell,” Annette drew the word out into three or four distinct pitches, sounding immensely uncomfortable. “Not exactly.”

Sylvain was not looking at the inventory checklist anymore. 

“Oh, won’t you? It’s all right, you can tell me! You two are actually very alike, you know. Very organized and methodical, focused on your goals, very truthful, maybe a little prone to attacking first and asking questions later. Felix is certainly more like you than I am, deep down. Oh, you’ll miss him! I just know it.” 

Huh. Sylvain had never thought of that before. But now that Mercedes mentioned it, his interactions with Annette _did_ sound an awful lot like the way Felix was determined to beat all comers at swordsmanship. Up to and including the mortal avatar of the goddess herself--bless him. 

“Yeeaaah, about that.” Annette did not sound any less uneasy. “I’m not going to miss Felix, Mercie. Because I’m going with him. So I’ll miss the rest of you all, I guess?”

“You’re leaving with him? I would have thought you wanted to meet up with your father in Fhirdiad?” Mercedes sounded taken aback. 

“Well, Felix just lost his father, and with Glenn and his mother already dead I don’t want him rattling around in that big castle all alone. That’s not good for a person! Not to mention that Fraldarius is a big territory and there’s a lot that needs to be done, so I’m sure he’ll need help, and then he won’t ask for help when he does need it because he’s a stubborn ass. So I’m just not going to give him an option, and force him to accept help! OW!”

There was a dull wooden thud right before the exclamation. Sylvain peeked outside the pantry. Annette was sucking on her knuckles. 

“Everything fine out there?” Sylvain asked.

  
“Yeah.” Annette groused. She was wearing some kind of frilly apron with strawberries embroidered on it that clashed terribly with the rest of her clothes, already soaked with dishwater. “I just punched the counter. Turns out, the counter is hard!” 

“...Right.” Sylvain leaned against the pantry door. Mercedes’s expression behind Annette was utterly inscrutable, like she was torn between a state of shock and amusement. 

“Wait, have you been listening this whole time, Sylvain?” Annette demanded. 

Ha! Sylvain knew when to play dumb, but nice try, Annette. “I mean, I’ve been in here for the past fifteen minutes, but I’m doing inventory. I just heard a crash and thought I should check on you. Why, was I missing something?” 

Mercedes shook her head, lips pressed together to smother laughter. Annette might buy it, but she did not. “Not at all. Don’t let us bother you, dear.” 

“Good. Okay.” He ducked back into the pantry, reminding himself that yes, he was supposed to be doing inventory. He looked down at the checklist again. Who the fuck had done inventory before him? Were those numbers or as of yet undiscovered crest sigils?

Oh wait. That was Felix’s handwriting. Figured.

“And besides!” Annette started talking again, quieter this time. “My father was the one who decided to up and ditch for years, the least he can do is be a little bit understanding that I have more than one important thing to do right now!”

“Yes, that makes sense, I suppose.” Mercedes said, thoughtful. “So soon, though?”

“He’s already waited too long! It’s been madness up there ever since Rodrigue died! So yeah, we need to go.”

None of this surprised Sylvain, for two reasons. 

Reason the first: on the fourth night after they returned from Gronder, Sylvain poked his head into Felix’s room unannounced to check on him. He walked in on Annette sitting on Felix’s bed, the latter curled up on his side with his head in her lap. Felix was staring glassy-eyed into the void, while Annette stroked his hair and muttered some sort of soothing nonsense. It looked...cozy. Both of them lunged at Sylvain with voices, fists, pillows, and other sundry projectiles raised as soon as they registered his presence.

Reason the second: _weeks_ later he caught Annette sneaking out of Felix’s room at four in the morning. Upon being caught, Annette slammed Sylvain into a wall and threatened him with a gruesome fate if he breathed word of this to anybody. 

Fiery redheads, Sylvain decided, were not his thing. And yes, he saw the irony.

Mercedes, however, was much more surprised. “Oh, I see then. Well, let us know if you need anything. I worry about the group splitting up.”

“Don’t worry, Mercie. We’ll be okay.” 

That night in his room, Sylvain heard a tentative knock on the door. He heaved himself up off his bed to go check. Mercedes was standing in the hallway, wearing a ruffled nightgown whose sleeves seemed to be in danger of slipping off her shoulders along with a shawl and boots, and carrying her pillow. 

They had all come a long way from the days of monastery uniforms and student curfews. At some point about halfway through the war, the Lions seemed to unanimously decide, “fuck it.” They were all real adults now, and they had far more important things to worry about. Fódlan would not fall to ruin if they slept in one another’s rooms, brought snacks into the Cathedral, walked around the monastery at 3am in their pajamas, or drank openly. What was the church going to do about it? Expel them? Pffft. 

These days, with the war over, Seteth had his hands full with the Archbishop anyway. Sylvain was an eyewitness to the minor kerfuffle that broke out after Dimitri returned to the monastery. Seteth originally had his traveling trunk sent to his old dormitory room, but Byleth found out and dragged it all the way up the stairs to the Archbishop suite by herself in an act of protest. 

But amusing as the memory of Seteth and Dimitri “chasing” Byleth at a snail’s pace while she backed down the hallway with an absurdly heavy trunk was, Sylvain didn’t think of it long. As soon as he saw Mercedes’ face, he could tell--she was miserable. 

She shifted in back and forth in the doorway, hugging her pillow. “Can I sleep here?”

He held the door open. “You’re just in time.”

Mercedes stepped inside, letting him close the door behind her while she dropped her shawl and pillow on his dresser, before she stepped in to embrace him. Not around the neck, but looping her arms under his and stooping a bit to rest her face on his chest. He tucked her head under his chin, rubbing her back.

“Annie is leaving with Felix.”

“I know.”

She sighed. Her breath fanned out under the collar of his shirt. “I’m happy that she’s happy. I just…well, I don’t want her to leave, I suppose.”

“Yeah?”

“It's selfish of me. Everybody's leaving, and doing important things. I don’t know what to do anymore.” He could understand that. Dear goddess above, did he ever understand that. 

Sylvain hugged her a little tighter. “That’s okay, Mercedes. I’ve never known what to do.”

They wound up crashing into bed minutes later. The dorm beds didn’t provide them a whole lot of room to work with, but they usually slept spooning, with Sylvain’s back pressed against the stone wall to keep him from overheating. To his surprise, Mercedes turned to face him, sliding one knee between his and wrapping her top arm around his neck. 

He was half asleep when Mercedes murmured “Sylvain?”

“Hmm?” 

“I know it isn’t your favorite thing, but can we talk about relics and Church legends soon?” 

He nodded, patting her shoulder in his semi-conscious state. “Mhm. Course.” 

“Thank you.” 

_(Two weeks ago, Ashe cornered him in the Knights' Hall. “So. Mercedes seems to be staying over a lot. Just an observation.”_

_“Yeah, what of it?”_

_“Nothing. But you know, if you can sleep the night with a lover without “sleeping with them” first, that’s a real relationship.”_

_“That sounds made up, Ashe.”_

_Ashe shrugged. “Suit yourself. I don’t make the rules.”)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you so much for reading. <3
> 
> I have decided that Ferdinand and Bernadetta both survived in the world of this fic, because I love that ship, and I do what I want. I will happily freestyle an epilogue card for them upon request. 
> 
> [Mood music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eArVJFjd6S0) for this chapter comes courtesy of Ashe, because of course he listens to The Strokes. Have a wonderful Halloween/Samhain!


	4. A Brief Inquiry into Monastery Relationships: Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I see what Sylvain is saying.” Mercedes said, after a brief lull. “After everything that’s happened? At a certain point, you just want to be with your best friend. I can understand that.” 
> 
> Sylvain barely dared to glance over at her. 
> 
> Felix grunted, folding his arms across his chest. “You sound like my father.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back, party people! It's my birthday in a couple days, so you get a new chapter. :)
> 
> Mild content warning for this chapter: alcohol consumption, and mention of period appropriate but *significantly* underage drinking. Actually, just assume that alcohol will crop up regularly from here on out. 
> 
> Thanks as always! Your kind feedback means a lot to me.

Before Felix and Annette could depart, Dimitri and Byleth called the remaining Lions together, because they had Very Important news to share. “Not a war council, or a political talk.” Dimitri specified. “More of a...family meeting, perhaps?” 

So they all gathered in the war room, even Hapi. And then they promptly got sucked into discussing Brigid relations, and peace talks with Almyra, and a dozen other very important but also painfully boring topics that were not something you called a family meeting over. Sylvain was seriously starting to wonder if Dimitri or Byleth knew what a “family meeting” was (did they think it was just a cutesy name for a town hall?) when Dimitri stood up at the head of the table and cleared his throat. 

“I, uh...thank you all for being here.” Silence. Dimitri tried again. “Byleth and I wanted to make an announcement, while most of us are still gathered together.” 

Sylvain couldn’t be sure, but he thought he heard Felix mutter, “Who the fuck is _Byleth_?” 

“Yes, _Byleth._ ” Dimitri repeated. He broke off, nudging the Archbishop, who was still seated next to him. “Are you sure you don’t want to tell them?” 

Byleth shook her head, doing that small, coy smile which meant she was actually quite happy. “You tell them.” 

“Yes. Right.” He looked back up. “We’ve been keeping this quiet, so there won’t be a public announcement for a while yet, but our dear Archbishop has agreed to marry me. Next spring.” 

“Well.” Said Byleth. “We proposed to each other. Technically.” 

Annette shrieked; out of excitement, glee, or shock, nobody could say. Pandemonium broke out.

  
“Mozel tov!” Yuri mimed throwing confetti. 

“All right!” Sylvain and Hapi said at the exact same time. 

“Oh, that’s wonderful!” Mercedes.

“About damn time!” Felix.

“Excellent news!” Gilbert.

“Congratulations!” Ingrid. 

“...Wait. Was I not supposed to know already?” Asked Linhardt, nonplussed.

“I knew. I helped his Majesty pick the ring.” Dedue answered with a smirk. 

“Hey, Linhardt, can I borrow those?” Annette pointed to a small stack of meeting notes he was holding. Linhardt handed them over. She rolled them up and bonked him on the head. “Behave yourself!” 

“Owww, what did I do?”

“You’re supposed to act happy for them!” She said.

“And you did a wonderful job, Dedue.” Byleth leaned over across Dimitri, patting the former on the arm. “I love my ring.” 

“I am happy!” Linhardt protested. “But the whole affair was just blindingly obvious! I happen to be the Archbishop’s interim secretary--” 

“You made that title up, Linhardt.” 

“--So sometimes I see her mail! I know things!” 

  
“Oooh, yeah, there's a _ring_! Let’s see the shiny!” Said Yuri. Byleth reached into the neck of her blouse, pulling out a ring on a chain. Yuri was up on his feet, coming around the table to inspect it. 

Ingrid was up on her feet too, going to hug Dimitri. “I’m so proud of you for taking this step together, your Highness.” 

Mercedes towed Sylvain with her over to the Archbishop, shunting Yuri off to the side. Sylvain waited until Mercedes was done hugging her, before holding his arms up. He wouldn’t have blamed Byleth if she didn’t want him touching her. Not after the things he had said to her. If she hated him, well...he deserved it. “Professor?” 

But she didn’t seem bothered. She hugged Sylvain in a vice-like grip, rocking them both from side to side. It was a silly little gesture, so unlike her old self that Sylvain let himself be pulled along. He didn’t hug Byleth very often, but whenever he did there was always this odd smell that seemed to emanate from her. Something sweet like rotting flowers, but also something sharp like chemicals or lightning magic. What the hell _was_ that? 

Sylvain put it out of his head. “Congrats. Want me to give Dimitri the shovel speech for you?”

“Shovel speech?” 

Right. She had been living under a metaphorical rock for twenty years, and literally asleep for another five. “Yeah. About how I have a shovel I’ll bury him with if he breaks your heart. It’s a thing, I swear. Usually it’d be Jeralt or a family member’s job, but I’ll do it!” 

“Oh.” Byleth said, looking thoughtful. “That won’t be necessary. But thank you.” 

Somehow Yuri, Ingrid, and the two Dominics convinced the couple that they simply _must_ have an engagement party that very night. Mercedes and Annette were in charge of purchasing supplies in the village, while Sylvain and Felix were to accompany the two women for the express purpose of helping them carry shit back. 

Garreg Mach village proper was about a mile and a half down from the Monastery, in a valley within the mountain range. It would be freezing in Gautier by now, but the Oghma Mountains were still autumn colors. They started the walk four abreast in relative silence, except for the crunch of gravel and leaves under their feet...Until Annette randomly hip-checked Felix, sending him staggering out of formation.

“Hey! Hmph.” He groused. “You better be glad you’re cute.” 

“Felix!” Annette blushed. “Our friends are here!” 

“Don’t let us old people ruin your fun. Ah, to be young and in love!” 

“ _Sylvain!_ ” Now Felix looked mortified. 

“Hey, so that reminds me," Annette began, which was a great segue. “Can I ask you all your opinion on something?” 

“Of course!” Mercedes said. 

Felix shrugged. “Only if you actually want to know what I think.” 

“As much as I support our friends and want them to be happy...Do you think Dimitri and the Professor are rushing things? It’s only been a month since we were all fighting for our lives. Lots of big feelings going around!” Annette crumpled in on herself a little. “Maybe I’m just a huge downer.” 

“You’re not a downer.” Felix said instantly. “You worry about your friends because you care.” 

Sylvain pulled up short, stopping Mercedes with him. “Whoa. Who are you, and what have you done with Felix? Are you one of those weird people like Lord Arundel and Monica?” 

Felix stopped walking. He frowned. “That's a sick joke! And fuck you, Annette asked a question.” 

“We’re all listening, Felix.” Said Mercedes soothingly, looping her arm through Sylvain’s and leading the group on again.

“If we’re being honest, they probably are rushing. But it’s also probably not the stupidest plan Dimitri’s ever had, either. Low bar, but.” Felix shrugged.

“Well…” Sylvain scratched the back of his neck with his free hand. “That’s just the thing. What else were they supposed to do at this point? Pat each other on the back and go their separate ways? So long and thanks for the memories?” 

“I don’t know, date like normal people? Or maybe have a longer engagement?” Annette suggested.

“Yeah, but...none of us are normal people anymore.” Said Sylvain. It was hard to argue with that one. 

“...Maybe you’re right.” 

“I see what Sylvain is saying.” Mercedes said, after a brief lull. “After everything that’s happened? At a certain point, you just want to be with your best friend. I can understand that.” 

Sylvain barely dared to glance over at her. 

Felix grunted, folding his arms across his chest. “You sound like my father.” 

“Oh. I’m sorry?” Mercedes said, clearly taken aback.

“It’s fine. His beliefs were dog shit, but my parents loved each other.” 

They all knew the story. Everyone in northern Fearghus knew the story. Rodrigue and Matilda Fraldarius were a monastery love match. Matilda won the White Heron Cup their year at Garreg Mach. Her trophy and Levin sword were still on display, pride of place in Rodrigue’s study. It really was a pity, how their romance was cut short--when a spooked horse threw the poor duchess and trampled her to death.

(Sylvain was pretty sure his own mother and father “got along well,” and “had grown fond of each other” over the course of their thirty seven year marriage. But he was equally sure they were not and never had been _in_ love like Matilda and Rodrigue were.)

Sylvain cleared his throat at length. “Yeah. What Mercedes said. And let’s not forget, from our perspective, Byleth was the one taking care of Dimitri recently. But it wasn’t always like that. When we first met, Dimitri was the one supporting her.” 

And that was putting it mildly. The old Byleth had been _different_ from what she was like now. She didn’t smile. She didn’t laugh. She didn’t frown. She barely reacted to pain. She didn’t _anything_. 

What must it have been like in her head back then? It couldn’t have been good. Dimitri wasn’t shy about his belief that Byleth was one of the people who saved him from a dark, meaningless existence. Perhaps, in heart of hearts, Byleth felt that she was merely returning the favor. 

In any case, who was Sylvain to judge?

Later that evening, the impromptu engagement party took place on the third floor of the monastery, with the whole group pitching in to drag food and booze up all those stairs. The first sign that this would be a night to remember came about an hour in, when Dimitri disappeared into the Archbishop’s room to refill his glass, and returned to the star terrace holding a mostly empty bottle of orange brandy that had been full when the night began. 

“Excuse me, everybody!” They all turned to look at him. “Who drank all the nice smelling brandy?” 

“You did.” Said Dedue, Sylvain, and Hapi as one voice. 

“Oh.”

Another hour after that, and the happy couple were both soused, dueling with a pair of old mops, while the rest of the Lions bet pieces of candy on who would win. The match ended when Byleth slipped in her stocking feet, Dimitri backed away to let her up, and Byleth lunged at his knees, toppling him to the ground with her. 

  
It occurred to Sylvain, as he lounged by the koi pond and shared the last slice of cake with Mercedes and Annette, that this was the first time the Lions had a party since they were all students. It was certainly the first time the Professor ever joined them. It was hardly a perfect party: Ashe, Flayn, Marianne, Lorenz, and Dorothea weren’t there.

But there would be another party where they were all present. Royal weddings involved a _lot_ of parties. For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, Sylvain knew there would be something to celebrate, and his friends would all be there.

( _Oh, and Lorenz too!_ The nasty little voice in his head quipped, before the self critical voice in his head retorted _, Get a grip, Sylvain. You know that Lorenz is your friend by now, you just don’t like it. And also, you’re only admitting this to yourself because you’re drunk. WHEE!_ ) 

Forty five days after the death of Edelgard...or was it forty four? Had Sylvain lost count? No, it was definitely forty five. Forty five days after the death of Edelgard, Felix and Annette left the monastery. Mercedes, Annette, and Gilbert all might have cried a bit. Felix looked particularly somber as well, clutching a small, silver urn to his chest. He was finally taking his father’s heart back to Fraldarius, to be interred in the family crypt with Matilda. 

Dinner that night was...quieter than it had been in a while. The only real entertainment came in the form of Yuri stealing croutons from Ingrid’s onion gratin while she wasn’t looking, and Hapi rolling her eyes at his antics. Sylvain, personally, was pleased that somebody was taking up the noble cause of annoying Ingrid. But at the same time, he still wasn’t sure what to make of it. 

“You’re like a little kid pulling her braids!” He said, almost laughing the fourth time he saw Yuri steal a choice crouton while Ingrid was turned aside talking to Dimitri.

Yuri winked in response. “Shhh!” 

Ingrid whirled around. “What’s he done?” Yuri chose that moment to bite into the stolen crouton with the biggest crunch he could manage. “Oh, damn it, Yuri!” 

He burst out laughing. “I’m sorry! I was waiting for you to notice but you just...didn’t!” Ingrid looked crestfallen. He pushed his own soup plate towards her. “Here. Have some of mine.” 

She dug her spoon into his bowl. “I’m taking this crunchy bit of cheese too, as reparations.” 

“Oh, by all means. Help yourself.” He gestured to the soup. “I sure can’t.” 

Sylvain was struck with the memory of a twelve year old Ingrid and a lad who looked an awful-lot-but-not-quite like Felix, sharing the single glass of wine their parents permitted them at every banquet. The two would hunker over that glass and giggle as they passed it back and forth, sip for sip, like they were getting away with something. Like their parents didn’t know one glass of wine was a tiny concession to make if it brought the pair closer. 

Suddenly, everything was awful. Sylvain hated feeling like this. That sense there were still holes in reality where Glenn was supposed to be. It happened less and less as the years faded away, but whenever those rogue waves of grief broke over him, they knocked him off his feet. 

Sylvain...didn’t like Yuri very much in that moment. And Sylvain also did not like the part of himself that did not like Yuri in that moment. Yuri hadn’t done anything wrong. And more importantly, who the fuck was Sylvain to suddenly be so upset over Glenn when Ingrid was right there? Or when Felix was out there somewhere still mourning for his father?

He finished eating quickly and excused himself to the stables, where nobody would see if he broke down. 

Forty fuck-it days after the death of Edelgard, Dimitri and his entourage were due to return to Fhirdiad in the morning. Ingrid, Dedue, and Yuri were all off somewhere packing. Somehow, Sylvain and Mercedes wound up summoned to a final meeting, along with Gilbert and Linhardt. It did not take long before Byleth and Dimitri were engaged in what was either a debate, or a very vehement agreement--without seeming to realize that they were actually agreeing--about Brigid policy. Again. 

“...My dear, you must know I have no intention to continue Brigid’s subjugation. I do not condone what the Empire did to them. I just think we need to approach our relationship with Brigid with some amount of caution. We do not know if all their leaders feel the same way as Petra. And if they chose to ally with Dagda and invade Fódlan again, I do not know if we could withstand Dagda’s army so soon after the war.” 

“And I hear you, Dimitri. But based on everything Petra’s ever said, I think Brigid is much more interested in peace. They don’t want war again either, after nearly being destroyed in the last Fódlan-Dagda conflict.” 

“That may be so. I admit, I do not know Petra well. I am less willing to embrace strangers of unknown allegiance and ideals than you are, it would seem.” 

Byleth crossed her arms. “You asked me to go home with you twenty minutes after we met.” 

Dimitri sighed. “It sounds...so much worse that it was when you phrase it like that.” 

“I’m sorry, WHAT?” Sylvain cut in, holding both arms out to stop the conversation. “Time out! You asked her to go home with you twenty minutes after you met?” 

Dimitri mumbled something, ending with, “--it wasn’t like that. I asked her to join the knights.” 

Sylvain narrowed his eyes. “Oh, boooo!” 

“Sylvain, you cannot boo me every time I say something you do not like.” Dimitri sounded very tired.

“BOOOO!” 

Dimitri opened his mouth to say something, and snapped it shut again. Byleth seemed to take that as her cue.

“Well. Moving on. As much as I hate to say it, somebody has to state the obvious. Garreg Mach can’t admit students next year.” 

Linhardt, who could have been mistaken for sleeping if not for the occasional movement of his quill, snorted. “Oh? You’re saying we can’t invite young people into a half collapsed building which still might come under attack? Radical stance, Professor.” 

The Professor quirked a smile. 

(Those two becoming the best of friends was still something of a mystery to the rest of the Lions, but Sylvain suspected a very simple explanation. Linhardt was an apathetic pacifist, and Byleth gave him a cause to believe in. Something worth fighting for. Byleth was a holy warrior and Linhardt, with his abhorrence for violence, grounded her and gave her someone innocent to protect. Pure of heart, and weak of stomach.)

Mercedes ignored Linhardt and his snark. “It’s sad, but you’re right, I don’t see any way to go forward with the Officer’s Academy in the near future.” 

“A prudent decision, Your Grace.” Gilbert nodded. “I know how much this school means to you all. This can not have been easy.” 

Sylvain, who was seated halfway down the table, leaned out onto his forearms to address Byleth. “Did anyone even apply this year? I’d be shocked.” 

Byleth smiled again, ever so minutely. “One. With a letter of recommendation. She’s a...what did you say it was called, love?” She poked Dimitri. 

“A legacy.” He supplied. 

Now Sylvain was really curious. “Who?

The Archbishop shuffled through the files in front of Linhardt, bringing out a large, flat envelope. Dimitri, who clearly already knew what this was about, looked amused too. “Here, show that to Sylvain.” She handed it to Linhardt, who passed it on to Mercedes.  
  


Mercedes took one look at the first page. “Oh.” She giggled. “Well, that does make sense.” 

She handed the packet off to Sylvain. He peered at the looping script. “...I don’t know what else I was expecting.” 

_Applicant’s name: Camilla Gloucester._

“That’s Lorenz’s little sister, isn’t it?” Mercedes asked, clasping her hands in front of herself.

Byleth nodded. “Strong application, too. I wish we could admit her.” 

Mercedes nodded. “I hope she’ll apply again in future. There’s nothing wrong about being a little older and pursuing your education!” 

“Not at all.” 

Mercedes chewed her lip, “Well, if now’s a good moment, I was wondering about the cathedral. Do we have a timetable for being able to open it to the public again?” 

Sylvain half listened to the conversation. He was scanning Camilla Gloucester’s application out of morbid curiosity about what a smaller, female Lorenz would be like. Age, seventeen. Interested in swordcraft, commanding battalions, and black magic. Long winded letter of recommendation from Lorenz. Extremely terse letter of recommendation from Count Goneril. Admissions essay on how the formula for a simple healing spell could be reverse engineered from the formula for Miasma.

This Camilla wrote like an unholy amalgamation of Lorenz and Annette. Which was terrifying. He was about to put the application back in the envelope when his gaze stumbled across one particular line, halfway through her letter of intent. 

“ _Unlike my older brother (whose exemplary service to King, Church, and country I aspire to), I do not carry the Crest of Gloucester, nor any other Crest. I will never wield the relic Thyrsus. However, I firmly believe in the equal potential of sufficiently motivated individuals lacking Crests. I believe the high quality education offered by Garreg Mach, and opportunity to study at an institution led by Archbishop Byleth, will help me achieve the goals I have set for myself…_ ” Blah, blah, blah. 

Huh. No crest for Camilla Gloucester. But from the look of things, she wasn’t about to let a little detail like that get in her way. 

“You should find something for her.” Sylvain blurted out, dropping the application on the table and thumping it with his knuckles. The rest of the group stared at him. He hadn’t meant to say anything. Ooops.

“The Officers Academy is _closed_ , Sylvain.” Linhardt ventured, like he wasn’t sure where the miscommunication had occurred. 

In for a penny. “Yeah, of course. Obviously. But we should, I don’t know, offer her a job or something. Maybe she could be a squire for one of Dimitri’s knights, or an apprentice for the Church. I just...think somebody who wants to make something of themselves deserves to be supported.” 

Byleth settled back in her chair. “That’s true. The Church has definitely taken apprentices before.” She considered for a moment. “I’ll talk to Lorenz. I don’t know what sort of job she’d want yet.” 

He nodded. That was an acceptable answer. And he certainly felt like less of an idiot for bringing it up in the first place. Sylvain felt a hand land on his knee under the conference table, giving him what was probably meant to be an encouraging squeeze before retreating again. He met Mercedes’ eyes to find her smiling softly at him. 

“Anyway, before we call it a day,” Byleth was still talking. “There’s something else I wanted to ask you two about.” 

An odd look flashed over Mercedes’ face. Was that...apprehension? Why would she be apprehensive? She turned away from Sylvain. “What’s that, Professor?”

“I’m going to be traveling to Fhirdiad regularly.” The Archbishop leaned forward on the table, interlacing her fingers. The green stone in her engagement ring glittered in the light from the windows, showering rainbow colored flecks on the wall. Now that the Lions knew of her and Dimitri’s engagement, Byleth had taken to wearing her ring openly.

“Because Dimitri is there?” Mercedes asked, with a giggle. 

Dimitri blushed bright red. But if she was trying to tease the Archbishop, she did not get much of a reaction. “Exactly. I’ve thought about it and talked to Seteth. There’s no reason I have to lead the Church from Garreg Mach. Not really.”

Which was a lot of words from Byleth, all things considered. Dimitri jumped in to elaborate further. “We’ve decided to make Fhirdiad our primary residence, and spend a month or two each year in Garreg Mach. Probably during the Guardian or Ethereal moon.” He cupped his jaw, curling up on himself a bit. It was a gesture he’d been doing as long as Sylvain knew him. The Dimitri thinky stance, as it were. “I believe I’ll actually enjoy the arrangement. Having a yearly respite from court! And the cold is getting harder on me.” 

“Dimitri…” Byleth sighed heavily, massaging her temples. “You’re supposed to tell somebody when you’re in pain, not just grin and bear it.”

“Hmm?” 

“But we’re to assume you’ll be traveling back and forth between Garreg Mach and Fhirdiad regularly before the wedding?” Gilbert asked, deliberately pulling the two back to the subject at hand, and not trying to hide it.

Byleth nodded. “That’s right.” 

Linhardt groaned. “No rest for the wicked. I swear, I’ve worked harder over the last month and half than my entire life up to that point. And now I’m to be dragged back and forth across Fòdlan. Back and forth, back and forth.” 

“Your life is so difficult, Linhardt.” Byleth retorted, but her tone was fond. “However, Garreg Mach is still an important strategic fortress. Somebody will need to garrison it for the time being. Felix and Annette can’t leave Fraldarius. Yuri, Lorenz, and Dorothea all have work already. Ingrid and Dedue go wherever Dimitri does, and Linhardt is accompanying me.” 

_Not to mention that tasking Linhardt with garrisoning a fort is like asking the family cat to house sit_ , Sylvain added internally. 

“I haven’t asked Ashe or Marianne yet since they’re still with their families. I hate to ask for one more thing, since you two have already done so much--” 

“Of course I’ll garrison Garreg Mach!” Mercedes interrupted her, beaming. “That’s what you wanted to ask, isn’t it?” 

The Archbishop nodded, relieved. “Good. I’m glad. We can pay you.”

“I’m in too!” Sylvain said, without so much as a breath to think. 

Byleth smiled again. “Thank you, Sylvain. It makes me feel better Mercedes won’t be alone.” 

Mercedes scooted her chair closer, liking her arm through Sylvain’s and smiling like the sun. “Oh, wonderful! We’ll be great together!” She turned back to the Professor. “You can count on us!” 

And that was how Sylvain and Mercedes got a job together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well hello!
> 
> Oh boy, I know that was a massive chapter compared to the previous ones, but I had a ton of stuff to get through. Sometimes that's just how it goes. XD And yes, that thing Sylvain points out about the reciprocity of the Dimileth dynamic is very important to me. Thanks for asking! 
> 
> Music for this chapter is from Felix, ["What I Am"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KBkSsJDXs5I) by Edie Brickell. The Felix in my head is definitely into late 80s alternative, and he definitely has a lot of thoughts. 
> 
> Fun fact from a history grad student: heart burial (the thing Felix is doing for Rodrigue) was fairly common in the medieval period, within the upper classes. Initially the practice developed as a way to bring knights who died on crusade home to be buried, in a world without modern embalming or refrigerated airplanes. Eventually it became something of a status symbol to have your heart buried in one place, and the rest of your body in another. Robert the Bruce, Richard the Lionheart, and Eleanor of Castile are buried this way. It seemed like an appropriately knightly but also sort of gross end for Rodrigue Fraldarius. 
> 
> See you next time!


	5. Fossils of the New Scene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you mind if I examine the Lance for a day or two, Sylvain?” Linhardt asked, far too cheerfully. “I want to take observational notes on how it moves. Perhaps it’s trying to communicate with us? Wouldn’t that be something!” 
> 
> “Sure, man. Do whatever.” He said, not really paying attention. “Just try not to turn into a black beast, okay?” 
> 
> “I woooon’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back, y'all! I hope everybody had a pleasant Thanksgiving if you're in the States, and a nice November regardless. I figure anybody reading this fic probably has either finished the game or doesn't mind, but in any case, spoilers for Verdant Wind/Silver Snow/Cindered Shadows. Here there be dragons.

Once Dimitri and his retinue left the monastery, things grew much quieter. Sylvain never really noticed how big and cavernous Garreg Mach was until most of the Lions were gone. Now it was just himself, Mercedes, the Archbishop, Linhardt, and Hapi. And that was if you even counted Hapi, who was usually nowhere to be found. 

A few days after Dimitri’s departure, Sylvain wandered up to the second floor to see if Mercedes needed any help cleaning the infirmary. Instead he discovered Byleth across the hall, armed with an array of screwdrivers, doing something to the nameplate on Hanneman’s old office door. Sylvain decided to investigate. 

“Hey, Professor. Whatcha working on?” 

Byleth pointed to the floor with her screwdriver, at a new, much shinier plaque which read _Linhardt von Hevring_. “He insisted.” She said, by way of explanation. 

“Linhardt’s taking over Hanneman’s old office, eh?” 

Byleth nodded. “With his name on the door.” 

Something didn’t quite add up here. “Hang on. You’re the Archbishop. If your ‘interim secretary’ wants an office with his name on the door, how is changing out the hardware your job?” 

She gave him a look. “Have you seen all the things I do that aren’t my job?” 

“...Good point.” 

Byleth went back to unscrewing Hanneman’s name plate. Sylvain reached over instinctively and held the plaque up, so she could use both hands for better torque on the screwdriver. 

“Thanks.” 

“When are you going to Fhirdiad?” He asked, mostly to make conversation while Byleth was practically standing under his left arm. 

“Two weeks. Staying for two or three. Haven’t decided yet.” 

“Good. You should scope court out before you move up there. It’s, uh...it’s its own world.” 

Byleth loosened the last screw, holding it between her teeth. Sylvain waited while she swapped out Hanneman’s old name plate with Linhardt’s new one. She nodded for him to hold the new plate in place once she was satisfied with it’s alignment. Byleth’s expression was unreadable as took the screw out of her mouth and asked, “Are you saying I should be afraid of the idle rich, Sylvain?”

He sighed. “I dunno. Maybe? This is where I remind you that King Lambert kept his second marriage quiet, because he didn’t want to deal with the bullshit.” 

Byleth gave the first screw a final few tightening twists. “I’ll remember that.” She fished in her pocket for the next screw. “Can I tell you something?” 

He nodded. “Fire away!” 

“I’m in over my head. Have been for years.” 

He glanced down. Byleth was staring at him with those massive, glowing green eyes, her mouth set in a thin line. Was she...asking for him to reassure her? Huh. That would be a first. 

“Yeah, well. I don’t think you’re alone in that feeling.” Sylvain said, grasping at straws but trying his best to be honest. “Just try to keep smiling, I guess. Everybody’s obsessed with that little cat smile of yours, so nobody will notice if you’re just making it up as you go. Right?” 

It was pretty terrible advice, but Byleth didn’t seem to hate it. She graced him with one of the aforementioned cat-like smiles. “Can do.” 

Three days later, Byleth deployed the four remaining Lions with a small fighting force to old Bergliez territory. Something about reports of “pale men” lingering around a burnt out village. All four knew entirely too well what that meant. 

When they arrived they found nothing save one of those horrific, mechanical golems that appeared to be guarding an abandoned church. No signs of life. Further investigation of the church yielded a crescent sickle, a short length of chain, and several very large blood stains on the floor and wall. 

  
(Linhardt bolted from the church instantly.) 

Which...safe to say, Sylvain would have felt much better if they had actually caught their quarry. Now they had no idea where the “pale men” had gone. The whole thing was like trying to kill a roach, losing track of it, and then wandering around the house with a rolled up newspaper, wondering if the roach was on was on you. Except in this case, if the roach found you before you found it, you die. 

They searched the countryside very briefly, before deciding that the smart move would be returning to the monastery and reporting to Byleth. Sylvain decided to take the sickle with him. 

As far as Sylvain could tell, nothing came of their little adventure into Bergliez territory. He and Mercedes spent the last week before Byleth’s departure in a “how to run the monastery” crash course. Sylvain was raised to run a castle, which wasn't so different from Garreg Mach. Mercedes was a little more unsure, but her church experience helped. 

Byleth seemed ridiculously happy the morning she and Linhardt departed for Fhirdiad. Linhardt complained from the moment he woke up until the moment their backs vanished beyond the monastery gates. That night Sylvain and Mercedes let themselves into the Archbishop’s suite, raided Lady Rhea’s board game cabinet, and ended up passing out on Byleth’s couch. 

After that first night of “lawlessness” they fell into a routine fairly quickly. Sylvain inevitably woke up first, and started hot water for tea. He’d learned a week or two prior that it was much easier to rouse Mercedes in the morning if tea was immediately at hand. Once they were both awake and on their feet, they split up and made their morning rounds. Mercedes checked in on the greenhouse and fish keepers, the head cook, the infirmary staff, the librarian, and various clergy leaders who worked in the cathedral. Sylvain checked on the heads of groundskeeping and maintenance, the captain of the knights, the training ground supervisor, the head stable hand, the armory supervisor, and the captain of the sky patrol. The rest of their work day was mostly devoted to finding solutions for everybody’s inevitable problems.

Overall, it could have been much worse. 

With Byleth absent, someone else had to assume the task of leading evening prayers in the cathedral. Mercedes offered to fill in a spot on the rotation. She was assigned cantor duty Tuesdays and Thursdays. 

Sylvain hadn’t touched a book of hours in five years but he offered to attend anyway, purely because Mercedes was nervous about singing in front of everybody. Mercedes accepted the gesture for what it was. She loaned him a set of her own prayer beads for the occasion, and a fifth hand book of hours she dug up somewhere. 

Kneeling on the stone floor of the Cathedral for any amount of time was a trial for Sylvain’s worn out knees. The monks, nuns, and more pious knights all clearly knew the chanted prayers better than him. Sylvain gave up after a while. He closed his eyes, clutching Mercedes’ spare prayer beads, and pretended to be deep in personal devotion to the goddess. 

Mercedes’ voice was quiet, but carried clearly during her portions of the prayers. The incense she lit at the beginning of the service was starting to build up in the enclosed cathedral, thick, warm, and spicy. After a while it all started to blend together: the swirl of chanting voices, the incense, even the ache in his knees. There was something...serene about it all. So far removed from the world outside. 

He barely noticed when the service ended. Sylvain was still kneeling, head bowed and eyes closed when a heavy hand landed on his shoulder. He nearly punched whoever it was instinctively. 

“Goddess!” He exclaimed. Mercedes’ prayer beads clattered to the floor. 

There was an elderly monk (who almost certainly did not deserve to be decked) hovering over him. The monk smiled sheepishly. “I apologize. I should know better than to startle a knight.” 

Sylvain scooped Mercedes’ beads up, draping them around his neck before making any attempt to stand up. He had to use the back of the pew in front of him to leverage himself upright. “It’s fine. Sorry if I scared you, too. Can I help you with something, Brother...?” 

“Edwin. Brother Edwin.” The old man supplied. “No. I came over here to tell you that I pray you find the peace you seek.” 

“Oh. Um.” Sylvain was caught off guard. Now was probably not the time to confess that he hadn’t really been praying for anything at all. At least he didn’t think he had been. “Thank you.” 

By the time Mercedes had everything put away and prepared for the next day’s rituals, the dining hall was already closed for the night. They ended up walking into town for dinner. 

“Thank you for coming to vespers to support me, Sylvain.” Mercedes said, as they walked arm in arm through the growing darkness. The days were getting shorter again. 

“Don’t mention it! I kind of enjoyed myself, actually.” 

He wound up going again when Mercedes was cantor on Thursday. And the Tuesday after that. It wasn’t that he’d finally found religion, per se. What he had discovered was a thirty minute escape from reality. A blessed half hour where he could make his shitty brain shut up, and just _be_. 

Maybe that was the real point of all this anyway. Not to placate the goddess or curry her favor, but to give her followers some peace of mind. Wouldn’t that be crazy?

Two weeks into overseeing the monastery, and Sylvain was starting to feel pretty good about this whole setup. If Garreg Mach offered an employee of the month award, he was fairly confident the Archbishop would have no choice but to give it to him and Mercedes for the month of Wyvern Moon. 

(Sylvain was quickly developing a new master plan. Step One: convince Byleth to institute an employee of the month award. Step Two: Team up with Mercedes. Step Three: Beat Lorenz and Dorothea at employee of the month every month. Step Four: Revel in sweet victory.) 

Needless to say, Sylvain was extremely shocked to discover Linhardt sitting at one of the long tables in the entrance hall a full week and a half before the Archbishop was due to return. 

“Linhardt! Why are you here?” 

“I live here, Sylvain.” He stood up with a grin, leaning against the end of the table. It was that impish grin Sylvain had come to know and fear. “Or did you forget about the part where my parents are prisoners? I have a feeling their retainers wouldn’t be too thrilled to see me at the manor. It was bad enough when I transferred out of the Black Eagles, but now that I’m in bed with the King and Archbishop? Scandal! Nevermind that I probably saved all their lives by choosing to run away and join the Kingdom, you know.” 

Linhardt seemed to catch himself. “‘In bed with the King and Archbishop’ being purely a figure of speech. Then again, I’d probably sleep with either of them, if I was invited. Or both. At the same time. Just to say I did.”

Sylvain felt a tiny part of his soul shatter, never to be seen again. “I...did not need to know that, man.” 

“But now you do!” Linhardt said. “Don’t you feel like your life has been enriched?” 

“You never answered my question.” Sylvain said, determined not to be derailed so easily. “What are you doing here _right now_? Where’s the Archbishop? Is something wrong?” 

Linhardt waved his hand dismissively. “She’s right where I left her, with Dimitri. Don’t worry. I’m on a bit of a...special mission.” 

“Special mission?” Sylvain repeated, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Yes. I’ll tell you later. Not here.” Linhardt caught Sylvain’s eyes with an extra bit of intensity, gesturing with his chin to a group of nuns at the opposite end of the hall. Sylvain arched his eyebrow.  
  
“Eh?” 

Linhardt nodded. Oh, shit. So it really was a _special_ mission.  
  


“Why don’t you swing by later? I’ll be in my office. Bring the Lance of Ruin and your girlfriend.”  
  
Sylvain felt his brain stutter. _Bring your girlfriend?_ Of course, Linhardt obviously meant Mercedes. But there was something about the way Linhardt casually said it. Like he hadn’t said something hugely significant. _Bring your girlfriend._

He hadn’t had that particular conversation with Mercedes yet. But still, it wasn’t like Sylvain could think of a different word to describe their relationship. Huh. Maybe Ashe was right after all...  
  
_YAY!_

With that realization behind him, Sylvain looked around himself. Linhardt had left. Okay then. Bye, Linhardt! 

Later that afternoon, once their work day was done, Sylvain and Mercedes stood outside Hanneman’s office. Sylvain rapped on the door with the Lance of Ruin, right below Linhardt’s shiny new nameplate. They barely had time to glance at each other before Linhardt cracked the door, sticking his face into the gap. “Yeeees?” 

Mercedes waved in response from behind Sylvain’s shoulder. “Hello, Linhardt. Welcome back.” 

He opened the door wider, giving them a view of Hanneman’s office. No, it was _Linhardt’s_ office now. Nobody had been in touch with Hanneman since they retook Arianhrod. Sylvain hoped he was alright. 

The change in ownership was obvious in the office itself. Hanneman’s prize crest analyzer was crammed haphazardly into a corner. Linhardt’s “improvements” to the space seemed to constitute more furniture, curtains on the window, a much comfier desk chair, a wyvern skull occupying a large portion of the desk, and twice as many stacks of unshelved books and dirty tea cups as Sylvain remembered Hanneman keeping on hand. He was also pretty sure he spied a significant number of stolen dining hall dishes, and chose to ignore all of them.

The green haired man made eye contact with Mercedes, and then his gaze skated over to the Lance of Ruin. “Ah, perfect! Do come in.” 

The two squeezed past him into the increasingly claustrophobic office. As soon as the door swung shut, they saw Linhardt hadn’t been alone in the office. Hapi was sitting atop Hanneman’s old conference table, perched among books and instruments with her legs sprawled in a way that would have been extremely revealing if not for her double layer of tights and thigh high socks. 

“Hey guys.” 

“Hapi!” Mercedes exclaimed. “When did you get back?” Neither of them had seen her in well over a week. 

“I never left. I’ve just been in Abyss.” 

“Oh, is that so?” Mercedes trailed off awkwardly. 

“I thought this wasn’t your scene?” Sylvain asked, gesturing around to all the research equipment. 

“Meh. It’s different when Linhardt does it.” 

Sylvain heard a metallic grinding behind him, and a clunk. He turned around. Oh. So Linhardt had just locked them all in. Alrighty, then. 

“So, Linhardt.” He said. “When are you going to tell us what’s going on?” 

“Can I see the Lance?” The other man retorted instantly. He stuck out his hands. 

It was with no small amount of trepidation that Sylvain handed the Lance of Ruin over. The lance glowed red in Sylvain’s grasp, only to flicker out in Linhardt’s. He felt the usual stab of discomfort, like the Lance _wanted_ him to hold it, and was sad when he put it down. 

Which was obviously ridiculous. Lances, even extraordinary ones like the Lance of Ruin, did not have feelings. Sylvain was probably just letting some weird, crest-related trauma sublimate into the human urge to personify everything. Yeah, that had to be it. 

Then again, Mercedes was protective of her relic too. She wore her necklace in the sauna, during sex, even slept in it on occasion. And the Rafail Gem wasn’t some delicate little locket meant to be worn day in and day out--it was a chunky statement necklace, with hard edges. Whenever she did sleep in the thing, Mercedes inevitably woke up with red dents in her skin from lying on it. Sylvain tried to coax her into taking it off whenever they slept in the same bed and leaving it on the nightstand, right in arm’s reach. But sometimes she would get antsy and put it back on halfway through the night. 

Still. All that could be explained easily enough. The Rafail Gem was the last heirloom of a nearly extinct family. Mercedes' brother gave it to her. It was the only thing left of the Lamine bloodline besides Mercedes herself.

  
Or perhaps there was something addicting about relics. Feeling the crest in your blood thrum, that surge of power, the thirst for _more_. Honestly, it freaked Sylvain out. He usually tried to ignore it. 

Lance in hand, Linhardt scurried over to his desk. Like he was afraid Sylvain would reconsider, and snatch it back. He perched on the edge of his desk, feet propped up in his chair, holding the shaft of the lance between his knees to inspect the blade. “Hello, there.” He crooned at it. 

It took a moment, but the lugs around the head fluttered. Almost like the Lance of Ruin was responding to Linhardt’s clearly rhetorical greeting. Sylvain usually tried to ignore it when the Lance moved, too.

He cleared his throat. “Okay. You’ve got the Lance. You can hold it as long as you’re talking.” 

“Of course. I have a question for you two, to start with.” Linhardt was practically caressing the Lance of Ruin. Sylvain was hardly a prude, but there was something very uncomfortable about the other man stroking his non-metaphorical lance in a room full of people. Perhaps it was because he felt the Lance was an extension of himself? “Have you ever felt like your relics were alive? Sentient, somehow? Had a personality of their own?”

What, was Linhardt a fucking mind reader or something now? No fair. 

Mercedes' hand came up to her pendant, holding it to her chest. “Um. Maybe sometimes. Yes?” 

Linhardt chuckled darkly. “That would make sense. Because I think it’s very likely that all of your relics are, to some degree, aware.” He let that one settle over the room. 

“Um. How?” Mercedes said. 

“Because they’re made out of bone.” Linhardt said. “The Archbishop has allowed me to take samples from the Sword of the Creator, and test them. It’s bone. Same thing with Dimitri’s Areadbhar. Bone. And I think it very likely that the beings whose bones they are made out of...don’t really die in the traditional sense.”

At first, all Sylvain felt was a sinking sensation. Then he felt quite silly. That did make a certain amount of sense. The relics made a hollow thunk sound when you knocked them. They were all ridiculously heavy and unwieldy if you didn’t have the proper crest. They were all various shades of off white, and quite porous. Hell, he’d always thought that the lugs on his own Lance of Ruin resembled knuckle bones. How had he not seen that sooner?

“What do you mean?” Mercedes asked. “What...what sort of animal do you think the relics came from?” 

“Well. I’ve managed to track down a good number records on the subject in Abyss and the Crown’s private archives in Fhirdiad, left by previous researchers.” Still hanging onto the Lance, Linhardt rummaged through a stack of books on his desk, producing one that was half eaten away by water damage and very crumbly looking. “This one is fragmentary, but provides substantial evidence that the bones came from a wyvern-like creature. But bigger. Much bigger. I’ve got another one here somewhere that suggests gigantic lizards, or possibly sea monsters.” 

He paged through the book very carefully, finding the page he was looking for and turning it to face Mercedes. “See? Right there.” She came over to look at the page in question while Linhardt launched back into his ramble.

“Now. Let’s think about what we know about crests, relics, and crest stones. A relic needs its crest stone to work. A crest stone needs to be in contact with a person who carries the matching crest to unlock it’s true power, and avoid injury to the wielder. We know that crests are carried in a person’s blood. Hanneman’s device here is a little more advanced, but we’ve all seen rudimentary crest testing that uses a blood sample.” 

“Right.” Mercedes said absently. Midwives across Fodlan carried the necessary supplies for a blood test whenever they attended noble births. 

  
“Now. Church tradition states that all of these things are gifts from the goddess. Which provides a dogmatic explanation, of course. But let’s push that question further. How does this gift from the goddess _work_? If relics are constructed from a biological material and crests are genetic, it would be a reasonable assumption that a matching relic, crest, and crest stone all have the same natural source. But can we test this theory with circumstantial evidence? And can we combine it with the observation that relics are made from wyvern-like bone? Yes, we can. 

“We have all seen what happens when a person without a crest, or the correct crest, attempts to harness a crest stone’s power. What do they become?” 

Hapi raised her hand, answering without waiting for acknowledgement. “Demonic beasts.” 

“And what sort of monster is a demonic beast?” 

  
“Kinda dragony, mostly.” 

“Exactly.” Linhardt nodded. “This didn’t used to be common knowledge, but we’ve all had enough encounters with demonic beasts to know what they are and how they are made. Even Edelgard wasn’t ultimately immune…” His face grew pensive. 

The Lance’s lugs twitched again. Linhardt ran the back of his index finger over one. “Hmph. You’re not so bad, you know. Just misunderstood.” It took Sylvain a moment to understand he was talking to the Lance again.

“Edelgard aside.” Linhardt shook himself, still petting the Lance. “When people are transformed by crest stones, they become draconic. The crest stone takes control, and changes their physical form. And that form is always dragon-like. What does that tell us? Are the crest stones trying to revert to their original form? And let’s not forget the role of the Immaculate One in church teachings. Or what we saw with our own eyes when the monastery fell.” 

“That dragon.” Sylvain said. He could never forget it. He hadn’t been anywhere near the dragon, hadn’t seen where it came from. He’d been with Felix, covering a group of monks’ escape, but there was no missing the dragon when it suddenly appeared. 

“The Immaculate One.” Mercedes said a split second later. They all turned to look at her. She blushed. “Well. I don’t know that it was the Immaculate One. But I remember thinking it then. Mighty dragon, here to protect the faithful and all that. And I remembered it again just now, because you mentioned the Immaculate One.” 

Linhardt was giving her a strange, very intense look. “Mercedes, that dragon was _Rhea_.” 

Sylvain felt his own jaw go slack. Mercedes’ face went white, and utterly expressionless. “What?” 

“You didn’t tell me _that_ part!” Hapi exclaimed. She sounded angry. 

“Yeah, hold on!” Sylvain was almost yelling. He gestured wildly at Linhardt. “How the fuck do you know that?” 

“Because Byleth told me. She saw it happen. It’s one of the reasons she asked me to do some quiet research on relics in the first place. That and the mystery of why crest stones turn people into demonic beasts.” Linhardt folded his arms across his chest. “Do you not believe her?” 

“No, of course I believe her!” Sylvain exclaimed. He was scared. He hadn’t been scared five minutes ago. But now he was. Very, very scared. And he hardly understood why. “I’m saying _holy fucking fuck_ , who the fuck is Rhea? What is going on? Are dragons just walking around modern Fódlan as regular people? Are you a dragon? Am I a dragon? Is Byleth a dragon?” 

A new thought hit him all at once. “Oh shit. The Holy Tomb. There wasn’t a single body in there that we saw. It was full of crest stones. In graves. Why would you keep stones in graves? Unless they weren’t stones at all.” 

“Indeed.” Linhardt leaned the Lance against his shoulder, settling back on the heels of his hands. “And since you brought it up, where exactly is the crest stone for the Sword of the Creator? And what does all this mean for Byleth having apparently absorbed the power of the goddess?” 

Next to him, Mercedes gasped. Quite frankly, Sylvain had no fucking clue. He was still trying to wrap his mind around the Lance in Linhardt’s lap. The one that moved of its own accord, and was made out of wyvern-like bone. 

Everything fell into place all at once. “Linhardt. Is my ancestral weapon a corpse? Not, like, an animal carcass. A thing that could talk and think, and possibly take a human form. A corpse.” 

It wasn’t a question. 

“No. I’m saying I have reason to believe your Lance is _part_ of a dragon corpse. Not the whole thing, obviously.” 

“That’s...really fucked up.” 

Sylvain was jarred out of his fugue state by Mercedes’ shaky voice. “So that’s what was wrong this whole time. I knew there was something going on. With Byleth’s transformation, and the Tomb, and those documents I saw on her desk. That’s what you were working on.” She trailed off. She was still clutching the Rafail Gem to her chest. “I think I need to sit down.” 

Linhardt sighed. He moved his feet out of his desk chair, and kicked it in Mercedes’ direction. Mercedes plopped down into it without acknowledging him. 

Sylvain turned on Hapi. “You. How are you not losing your shit?” 

Hapi shrugged. “Remind me to tell you about fucked up blood experiments sometime when Lin isn’t around. Also, I kind of don’t care about Church lore and relics as much. I want to know what was up with that lady who kidnapped me. Also-also, he already told me most of this besides the bit about Chatterbox claiming Lady Rhea and that bigass dragon _are one and the same, Lin, that’s kind of a big deal_!” The last part was addressed to Linhardt. 

“Yes, well.” He turned back to Mercedes and Sylvain. “So that’s what I’m working on. The Archbishop sent me to do some covert research, finish my notes. If Lady Rhea’s old inner circle don’t know I’m back or what I’m doing, all the better.” 

“And then what?” Sylvain asked. 

“And then Byleth goes to Zanado and confronts Lady Rhea with what she knows. It would seem the old Archbishop has some explaining to do.” 

“Oh. Oh goodness.” Mercedes muttered. “I...I don’t know what to think.” 

Honestly, Sylvain didn’t either. He came up behind the chair, and laid a hand on her shoulder. She was trembling. 

“Do you mind if I examine the Lance for a day or two, Sylvain?” Linhardt asked, far too cheerful for someone who had just walked them through _that_ conversation. “I want to take observational notes on how it moves. Perhaps it’s trying to communicate with us? Wouldn’t that be something!” 

“Sure, man. Do whatever.” He said, not really paying attention. “Just try not to turn into a black beast, okay?”

“I woooon’t.” 

Of the five or six hundred thoughts swirling around in Sylvain’s head, the most ridiculous one suddenly materialized at the front of his mind, and forced its way out of his mouth. “Ha. I guess I won’t be convincing Byleth to create a Garreg Mach employee of the month award any time soon.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well fancy meeting you here! Let me tell you, this chapter was a *slog* to get through. After I finished my research paper for school, I just spent, like, a week staring at the wall and playing FE:Fates in a state of shock. But I don't hate the end result!
> 
> I have a twitter account now! I'm @AgneasArrow1, so feel free to drop by and say hello! I just started a new Blue Lions run with one of my good buddies, so I'll be sure to post my snarky observations as we go along. I also do concept art for costumes sometimes, so some of that might make its way onto my page. We shall see :)
> 
> Music for this chapter, courtesy of Linhardt, is ["The Ballad of Mona Lisa."](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xr1rwzTc4pQ) All bisexuals are contractually required to at least appreciate Panic At the Disco. I don't make the rules for my people. Sorry. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	6. Byleth's Lost and Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the end, Sylvain just had to trust she would tell him whatever was on her mind whenever she was ready. Shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, dears! I hope everybody is having a great festive season, and is staying safe out there. This chapter is fairly overdue, but it's a long one to make up for lost time. As a heads up, we're not hitting true NSFW territory, but are straying into the "might be weird if somebody looked over your shoulder at work, depending on where you work" range.

Years later, when people asked Sylvain how his relationship with Mercedes began, the story he usually told went something like this: a little less than a month after the Blue Lions returned to Garreg Mach for the Millenium Festival which did not occur, Mercedes asked him to meet her late at night in the cathedral. That conversation was brief, but ended in Sylvain crying on her shoulder. After that night in the cathedral, they started spending time together and just...never stopped. Realistically, that had been the turning point. But that was also a wildly oversimplified, and perhaps sanitized version of the story. 

After their conversation in the cathedral, they fell into a habit of going for late night walks. Walking and talking turned into hiding in increasingly secluded and cozy corners of the monastery. Sylvain started wearing his father’s old fur coat as the bitter winds of the Pegasus Moon started whipping through monastery grounds, specifically so he could share it with Mercedes when she started shivering. Fortunately there was enough material in the baggy old garment that they could share it reasonably well.

(“How are you not freezing?” 

“Because I grew up next door to Sreng! I don’t get cold. I used to run out into the snow in a night shirt and slippers as a kid! Did my mother like it when I did that? No. But I could.”)

Things changed again one night during the Lone Moon, as they were about to part ways and head to their respective rooms. Sylvain had leaned in to kiss her cheek--like he had been doing for the past week--when Mercedes turned her head so their lips met instead. 

Sylvain jerked back a second later out of pure surprise. Looking back, he really should have seen it coming. “Oh.” 

Mercedes covered her mouth. “I’m sorry. I thought--it seemed like that’s what you wanted.” 

Sylvain rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, yes. It is. I just...huh, wow. I guess it didn’t occur to me that you might actually want me.” 

“Oh! Well.” Mercedes smiled and shrugged. “I guess now you know.” 

Things escalated rapidly after that. 

Five days later, Sylvain found himself pushed up against one of the monastery’s stone walls, being soundly kissed by Mercedes. They were half concealed in the open air passage between the courtyard market and the stables; _but if someone happened to come around the corner_ , the maniacal part of Sylvain’s brain chirped, _they’d get one hell of an eyeful!_

Mercedes had one hand in his hair, which was mostly cushioning his head from smacking into the wall. At some point that he couldn’t really recall, Sylvain slid down the wall enough to bring his face truly level with hers, Mercedes shifting to stand between his legs. She was pressed into him hard enough to keep him pinned to the wall as they frantically chased each others’ lips. 

After five years of isolation and worry, Sylvain felt _alive_. He felt like he was truly in his own body for the first time in ages. He would have been terrified if it wasn’t so damn good. 

Eventually, Sylvain was forced to break away to catch his breath. He tipped his head back, sucking in the cold night air through wet, kiss-swollen lips. Mercedes took this as in invitation to lean forward, nuzzling into the skin below his ear, and nipping at his neck. He felt his eyes roll back as he let out a noise somewhere between a gasp and a giggle in response. 

Mercedes pulled back, brow furrowed. “Not for you?” 

“No, no it’s fine! Your hair tickles.” He twisted his head around, trying to afford her better access. “Do it again. Harder.” 

“Are you sure? That’ll probably leave a mark.” 

“Yeah, go for it.” 

She tucked her hair behind her ear--her hat was long gone, dropped on the ground at their feet. Sylvain’s eyes were half closed, waiting to feel soft lips and sharp teeth again. Instead he got, “You know...now’s probably as good a time as any.” 

“Huh?” Sylvain’s head rocked forward, eyes opening. That did not sound good. He felt his heart drop, and not in the pleasant, swoopy way he’d been enjoying a few moments prior.

Mercedes leaned against his hands on her back, trying to put enough distance between their faces to see each other properly. “So, I’ve been thinking for the past few days. There’s something we should probably talk about.” 

“Ooookay? What’s that?” 

Sylvain was starting to feel like he was in danger of slipping, and very exposed. He tried to adjust his stance into something that left a little more to the imagination than straddling her hips. She must be able to feel _everything_ like this. 

Mercedes must have sensed his awkward squirming. “You’re fine, you don’t have to move! And it's not anything bad I wanted to talk about. I’m not upset with you.” 

He let a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding out. “Good to know. But, uh, I don’t think my thighs can hold me like this for too long if you’re not pushing me into the wall for support.” 

“Oh. Sorry.” Mercedes stepped back a little, letting him shimmy up to his normal height. They quickly rearranged themselves so Sylvain had both arms wrapped around her waist, and Mercedes’ fingers laced behind his neck. 

  
“Okay, so...what was it you wanted to talk about?” 

“Right. That.” She suddenly seemed very interested in futzing with the shearling collar of his arming jacket. “Oh, you know, I think I did get you a little bit--you’re bruising.” She ran her thumb over a spot to the side of his throat. 

“I promise you, I do not mind.” 

“Well, anyway. I don’t exactly know a pretty way to say this, so I’m just going to come out and say it.” Mercedes cleared her throat. “What I wanted to say is I’ve been thinking about it, and I don’t particularly want to have sex with you for the first time in a cold, muddy tent the night before a major battle, while everybody’s emotions are already running high, and with Felix Fraldarius one tent over. That doesn’t sound very nice to me. But I also think I’d like to sleep with you before we all go off and risk our lives again. What’s your opinion?” 

“Uhh…” Sylvain could feel his mind going like a runaway cart, and no words coming out of his mouth. That was...a lot to take in all at once. And not at all what he had been expecting. Mercedes was staring at him expectantly. _Shit, say something! Shitshitshit._

Suddenly the thing she had just said about ‘Felix one tent over’ registered in his brain. He had no idea what kind of face he made, but it must have been such a face. 

“Yes. Uh, yeah. When you phrase it like that, absolutely.” His mind looped around to the start of her sentence. “I’m sorry, I just, did you say you’ve been thinking about having sex with me?” 

“...Yes? I did.” Her expression changed rapidly from amused to something much less happy. “Is that a problem? I’m sorry, I wouldn’t have asked if--” 

“NO, no! Not at all!” Sylvain took a deep breath, reminding himself that he was an adult and to use his words like one. “So, I get that you’re propositioning me. But you want this to happen here at the monastery and not in the field, preferably before we march again. Am I understanding all that?” 

“Yes, exactly! Is that fine with you? I know you have a history that hasn’t been very nice, and I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable…” 

It suddenly clicked. She was asking, and she wanted to hear an actual yes or no answer. “Yes. I like this plan.” 

“Wonderful!” Mercedes cheeks had flushed a bright, cherry pink that was only getting redder. “When do you…?” 

Sylvain cut her off. “Is tomorrow too soon? Can you have everything you need by then?” The maniacal part of his brain was yelling at him again, something to the effect of _tonight sounds real good._

Her eyes wandered off his face for the first time since she had broached the conversation, “Oh...I already got all the supplies I need.” 

Sylvain gasped. “Mercie! You really have been hatching an elaborate plot to bang me, haven’t you?” 

“Elaborate plot?” Her brow creased. “You make it sound so nefarious.” 

“You’re right. I kid, I kid. So, about tomorrow: your room or mine? And do you want dinner first?”

Mercedes considered for a moment. “Well, I don’t share a wall with anybody at the moment, so we’d be sure not to bother anyone. And I think dinner would be nice. You mean in town, don’t you?” 

“Of course.” 

“We can split the bill?” Mercedes offered. 

“Nope, my treat! No point in having my old man’s money if I can’t use it for a special occasion like this, yeah?” 

“Well, if you insist…” 

“I do.” 

Mercedes leaned forward so she could clap her hands together awkwardly behind his neck. “Ooh, I’m excited! And...sort of nervous. It’s been a while for me.” 

Something about her expression made Sylvain want to blurt out something stupid, dangerous, and utterly inappropriate. Something in the vein of, _“I think I love you, Mercedes! Let’s get married and have crest babies!”_

(For Seiros’ sake, had he really said that? Way to fucking go, Sylvain.) 

Instead, he laughed. “Yeah, me too, actually. With the war and all.” He glanced down, at their chests pressed together. “I never forgot about you, you know.” 

“I know. I didn’t stop thinking about you either.” She leaned her cheek on his shoulder. 

“So.” Sylvain said, after a moment. “Tomorrow. Big day. But can I interest you in making out a bit more tonight?” 

“Yes, I think you could!” 

Perhaps, in light of all that, it was no surprise after the war ended when the pair fell into domesticity rapidly and with relative ease in their new appointment at Garreg Mach. By the time the Archbishop departed for Fhirdiad, they had stopped sleeping separately altogether. For the first two weeks or so they bounced back and forth between whose room they slept in on a night by night basis. By the time Linhardt reappeared, they were beginning to favor Mercedes’ room. 

It was slightly smaller than Sylvain’s room, but it was on the same level as the dining hall, knight’s hall, and sauna, which was where they were the most likely to be around bedtime. It was also a shorter walk to breakfast and their morning rounds the next day. And as it turned out, sometimes convenience was more important than extra closest space.

While he was at the monastery on his _special mission_ , Linhardt told the pair that the Archbishop would be gone longer than they had originally planned. Once he finished with his research in the monastery, Linhardt would have to reunite with Byleth in Fhirdiad, and from there to Zanado before the pair finally returned to Garreg Mach. It would fall to the new commanding officers to keep all the other workers in the monastery calm during the Archbishop’s extended absence. 

Which was perfectly fine with Sylvain and Mercedes. Linhardt’s surprise appearance and unwanted revelation about the heroes’ relics had rattled them both, especially Mercedes. But plugging along like nothing was wrong, and keeping the monastery running? That was the least they could do. 

( _Business as usual! Nothing to see here, assorted knights and monastery staff! Nothing unusual at all! What’s that? No, nothing is wrong with the church! I’m sure it’ll all be fine._ )

Sylvain could tell Mercedes had taken it hard. How could she not? She had built her life around the Church. But the more he tried to question her about it, the more she threw herself into her work and insisted she was fine. Eventually Sylvain had no choice but to bite his tongue and leave the subject be. She wouldn’t lie to him, so she must believe what she was telling him. Right? Or at least...she was willing herself to believe she was fine. 

In the end, Sylvain just had to trust she would tell him whatever was on her mind whenever she was ready. Shit. 

While Linhardt locked himself in his office, experimenting on the Lance of Ruin, Sylvain checked a few banned novels out from the Abyss library. He and Mercedes took turns reading them to each other before they fell asleep. A few days later Linhardt was back on the road. That night Mercedes and Sylvain went to the market and bought a small supply of groceries to share. They stashed their haul on a shelf in the kitchen--along with a passive aggressive note declaring their joint ownership of said groceries-- for snacks and nights when Mercedes worked late. Sylvain’s clothes began to slowly migrate down to Mercedes’ room.

A week and a half later, while they were both dressing for bed, Mercedes approached him with a smile and her hands clasped together eagerly. “I have something for you.” 

“What is it?” 

She pointed to the closed top drawer in her dresser. “Open that!” 

Sylvain did as he was told. “...There’s nothing in here.” 

“Of course there isn’t, I cleared it out. It’s for you, so you can put your clothes away!” 

Sylvain looked at the chair where he had been keeping his clothes, and down at his new drawer. “Awww, thanks! This is...this might be the most romantic gift anyone’s ever given me. I mean that.” 

“Mhm, I’m a real catch.” Mercedes giggled like she had made a joke somehow. “And you’re welcome.” 

For probably the first time in his life, the world was on fire, but Sylvain's relationship was going fairly well.

(Also, the more that he reflected back on those conversations where Linhardt and Ashe tried to tell him that he and Mercedes were dating for real...Well, Sylvain was forced to admit that he might not be a clever man.)

All of that forced tranquility came crashing down when Byleth and Linhardt returned to Garreg Mach. She barely greeted them, and gave no answer but a shake of her head to Mercedes’ inquiries about their trip. She went straight from the stables to her rooms on the third floor. The two men chased her up the stairs, shouting entreaties to come back until they ran into her locked door. Sylvain watched from down the hall as Linhardt scratched at her barred door, like a loyal but lonely dog. 

“Professor?” He called, audibly attempting to keep his voice light. “Come on, let me in. It’s only me. You now I don’t care if you’re an undead dragon. Or rather, several dragons in a long coat masquerading as a single dragon. You’re still the same old Professor to me. In fact, I think that’s pretty neat! I don’t know anybody else who’s made out of literal parts from their own ancestors!”

And yeah, Sylvain couldn’t even begin to interpret that comment, but he had a feeling he would find out soon. And he kind of didn’t want to find out, but whether he wanted to or not probably didn’t matter. 

Linhardt pounded on the door a little harder. “I can hear you in there, Professor! You never shut me out before, so why start now? That doesn’t make much sense, does it? Hmm?” He jiggled the handle, seeming to lose patience. “Byleth! Oh, for fuck’s sake, are we really going to do this?”

Byleth’s voice said something Sylvain couldn’t make out. Linhardt sighed. “I’m sorry I called you ‘several dragons in a long coat masquerading as a single dragon.’ I should have said ‘several Nabateans,’ since that is the proper terminology. Will you let me in?”

He pressed his ear to the door. “No, of course not! I’ve always known you were weird, it doesn’t bother me! Just think of what an incredible discovery this is for crest research! Professor? Please?” He cleared his throat. “You’re...you’re my best friend. Can’t we talk about this?” 

(That one hurt even Sylvain, and he wasn’t directly involved in this exchange. Memories of Ingrid’s locked bedroom door, of Dimitri hiding in remote corners of Blaiddyd castle and refusing to eat, of Felix bodily shoving Sylvain away when he tried to comfort him swam in his mind’s eye. He blinked rapidly.) 

Linhardt turned his back to the door, sliding down to sit on the floor. “Fine. I guess I’m just going to sit here until you let me in. Did you hear that, Professor? I don’t care if I have to sit on this cold, hard floor all night! Away from my books, and my bed...you won’t outlast me!” He thumped his fist into the door a few more times. 

His head dropped back against the door. “Fuck.” 

For a moment, Sylvain thought that their Byleth was gone, and the Ashen Demon had returned. But then he heard Byleth turn the bolt on her door, and it scraped open a crack. Linhardt nearly toppled backwards into the room. 

“Come in, then.” 

Linhardt scrambled inside, door slamming shut behind him again and bolt dropping back into place. Sylvain waited for a few breathless moments before he crept down the hall, and pressed his ear to the door. He could hear Linhardt talking, and a more muffled sound. It took him a minute to realize that Byleth was crying. 

Oh, shit. He hadn’t heard the Professor cry like that since Jeralt died. His conscience suddenly overcame his concern. He shouldn’t be listening at doors like this. Linhardt was in there with her at least. Perhaps he should trust Linhardt to deal with the crisis. 

That seemed to be the theme of his life recently. Trust people to come to him when they were ready. And he did not particularly like that life lesson. 

Later that night, Sylvain was helping Mercedes “clean” the empty and already sterile infirmary yet again. They had taken to cleaning the infirmary obsessively, not because it was currently being used for anything more than a glorified medicine cabinet, but because it _felt_ like something they should be doing. It still felt like they should be ready for an attack and a subsequent wave of grievously wounded soldiers at any moment.  
  
Seventy one days after the death of Edelgard, and Sylvain was down on his hands and knees with a wet rag mopping under cots in an empty infirmary, in preparation for an Imperial attack that wasn’t coming. And you know what? Now that he thought about it, he was pretty pissed! Seventy one days, and he still couldn’t sleep at night unless he was too exhausted to keep his eyes open. How about fuck you, Edelgard? Fuck you and the white horse you rode in on!

“Sylvain?” Mercedes’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts. He nearly hit his head on the underside of the cot.

“Yeah?” 

“You’ve been cleaning under that one bed for a while now.” 

Sylvain looked down at the single spot he had been mindlessly scrubbing. Actually it was more in front of him than down, since he was stretched out under the cot, propped up on one forearm. “There was a sticky patch.” He said lamely. 

“Is it not gone? Unless you’re just showing off, in which case don’t let me stop you!” He could have sworn he heard a hint of a giggle in her voice. 

His hand was starting to prune on the wet, vinegary rag. And that sticky patch was most definitely gone. He shuffled awkwardly out from under the bed, dragging his rag with him, and sat back on his heels. Mercedes was sitting on the cot directly behind him. Their eyes met. 

  
“So this might sound like a lie,” Sylvain said. “But there really was a sticky spot on the floor.” 

“Oh, I know!” Mercedes said brightly. “That’s what made the whole thing fun to watch.” 

“Heh. Well, you can ask me to crawl around sexily on your infirmary floor any ti-- Oh shit! Ow.” He attempted to stand, only for his knee to buckle out from under him. He peered up pleadingly at Mercedes. “Help?” 

She stood up, holding out her hand. Sylvain managed to get to his feet with a minimal amount of staggering and wincing this time. “Are your knees really getting that bad?” Mercedes frowned. 

“Sometimes, yeah. I think it’s more that they’ve _been_ bad and I’m finally noticing, now that I have time to think about it?” 

Any further conversation was cut off by somebody tapping on the door frame. Linhardt poked his head in. 

“Hello, Linhardt. Can we help you with something?” Mercedes asked. 

“I’m going to find something for the Professor and I to eat. She’s asking for you two.” 

And with that, he vanished again. Mercedes and Sylvain hastily put their cleaning supplies away and made their way up the stairs to the Archbishop’s suite, Mercedes guiding him by the hand. They were outside Byleth’s door before Sylvain realized that the hand Mercedes was holding was the same one he’d been using to mop, and it must still reek of vinegar water. Ah dammit, now she was going to smell all vinegary too. 

“Professor, are you in there? Linhardt said you wanted to see us?” She called. 

“It’s open.” 

It was dark inside the Archbishop’s suite. The only light in the room came from the fireplace. At first, the only part of Byleth that Sylvain could make out in the oppressive gloom was the firelight glowing on her mint green hair. But once he spotted her hair, the rest of her followed. She was wrapped up in a pile of blankets, sitting on the sofa in front of her fireplace with her knees folded up to her chest. She looked miserable. And he had no idea what to say. 

“Oh dear, Professor!” Mercedes dropped Sylvain’s hand, bustling over to Byleth’s side. “What’s the matter?” She dropped down to sit on the couch next to their old teacher, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. 

“How much did Linhardt tell you?” Byleth’s voice sounded raw and creaky. 

“Some of it. We know about what the relics are. They’re dragon bones, aren’t they?” 

Byleth nodded. “They’re called Nabateans.” 

“Nabateans, of course.” Mercedes repeated. Sylvain took that moment to let himself into the room, easing the door closed behind him. 

“Did he tell you about my mother? About me?” She asked, fixing them both with her odd eyes. All at once, every odd quirk about Byleth and her fusion with the goddess, the true nature of crests and relics, all the weird shit they’d seen over the past five and a half years came crashing together in his mind, and Sylvain found himself wondering how he had ever thought her an _ordinary human_. How foolish they had all been five years ago. 

Her question hung in the air. 

“No, he didn’t.” Mercedes said. “Not directly, at least.” 

Byleth shifted in her blanket cocoon, and wiped her nose on her sleeve. Mercedes immediately reached into her pinafore pocket, and produced a handkerchief. “Here, blow. Sylvain, you come over here too, we’ll make room for you on the sofa.” 

The Archbishop of the Church of Seiros blew her nose none too tidily into Mercedes’ handkerchief, folding it over and scrubbing her eyes with a clean corner. “I hate crying. I never used to cry.” 

“Well, nobody likes it.” Sylvain remarked, as the women shuffled sideways to make room for him. It was a tight squeeze for three of them on the sofa, with Byleth sandwiched between them. Sylvain let his head drop over to the side, butting his forehead into her shoulder. “Hey, we’ve made it this far. Whatever the problem is, we’re gonna be fine. Isn’t that right, Mercie?” 

Byleth barked with laughter, which seemed to surprise even her. She stuck her free hand out of the blankets, working her fingers into Sylvain’s hair and scratching him like a favorite cat or dog until he pulled away again. His hair stuck up at all angles. 

They were quiet for a moment before the Archbishop spoke again, barely above a whisper. “Did I ever tell you about when I woke up after the battle?” 

Her mysterious reappearance after five years, during which time they all thought she was dead? Yeah, she’d always been kind of mum on the subject. Mercedes and Sylvain shook their heads. “No, you didn’t.” She said for both of them.

“There was nothing. Then I heard a voice, and then I was awake. And all I could think was that I had to find Dimitri. I needed to see him.” She took a shuddering breath. “And the rest of my Lions too. But I thought of him first.” 

The way Byleth said it, it sounded like the monumental confession was...wanting to see the man she would end up proposing marriage to eight months later. Oh, _Byleth_. If she hadn’t been so viscerally upset, Sylvain would have laughed out loud. 

Mercedes gave the Professor her best “bedside manner” smile, rubbing her upper arm soothingly. “Well, that’s probably a good thing! Dimitri’s your special person, it’s only natural you’d want to see him first.” 

Byleth crumpled. “He knows everything now too. About me. What if he changes his mind?” Her eyes swam with tears again.

Oh. Now Sylvain got it. 

Mercedes still seemed confused. “Huh?” 

“No chance.” Sylvain said firmly. “You’re saying you’re a Nabatean, right? Half Nabatean? Sorry, I kinda figured out where this was going.” 

Byleth held up her thumb and forefinger. “Half? Ish? Two thirds? I’m not sure how to count it. My mother was sort of a Nabatean.” 

...Right, they were going to circle back around to how being “two thirds” Nabatean was mathematically wacky, but that was not the important point right now. “Professor, there is absolutely zero chance Dimitri is going to break up with you because you’re part dragon. If crests come from these Nabateans, then hell! Me, Mercie, and Dimitri himself are all a little dragony.”

“But isn’t that something a person _might_ do? Break it off with somebody for not being fully human?” 

Mercedes made eye contact with him over Byleth’s head. She arched her eyebrows as if to say, _you’re the expert, you tell her._

Sylvain heaved a sigh. “Yeah. Coming from somebody who’s broken up a lot, it’s definitely a reason why one person might break up with another. But the question here is would _Dimitri_ break up with _you_ for not being fully human. And the answer to that one is no, he wouldn’t. Absolutely not. 

  
“You’d probably embarrass the hell out of him by asking, but I’m pretty sure Dimitri started making preliminary wedding plans way back when you still had blue hair. After everything you two have been through together? And in light of his own glaring flaws, which he is perfectly aware of? He’d be a real asshole if he dumped you for having a little extra dragon blood. And Dimitri’s a lot of things, but he’s not an asshole.” 

The Archbishop leaned over into Mercedes' shoulder. “Is this what normal people do? Make themselves cry more for irrational reasons?” 

Mercedes nodded. “Sometimes, yes.” 

“I just thought, ‘What if Dimitri gives his ring back?’ And the more I thought about it I--” Byleth’s voice cracked, and she hid her face in Mercedes’ borrowed handkerchief again. “It’s stupid. I have more important things to be upset about. What am I going to do about the Church? That's a real problem.” 

“It’s not stupid.” Mercedes protested gently. “It can be very upsetting to even imagine losing someone you really love. And I suspect you _are_ reacting to all the reasons you have to be upset, whatever they are. You can be sad over more than one thing at a time, and worrying about your relationship is just the easiest to articulate.” 

Sylvain shifted closer on the sofa, resting his arm on the back so he was sort of...holding the two women in spirit. “You know, if you’re worried about not being human enough, having a dozen rational reasons to be upset and crying for the silliest reason of all is probably the most human thing you could do.” 

“Is that so?” 

Sylvain nodded. “Professor, after everything you’ve been through? You are seriously overdue for a major crying jag. Don’t worry. It happens.” 

Byleth's breath hitched. "Oh, fuck. What I am I gonna do about the Church?" She dissolved into a new round of tears.

At that exact moment, Linhardt reappeared in the doorway carrying a tray of what looked like mildly burnt vegetable stir fry. He took one glance at the trio on the couch and his face fell. “Professor! I thought these two were here to cheer you up!”

He dumped the tray on the nearest flat surface, rushing over to the couch. “Um, uhh... Don’t cry! Poor Professor.”  
  


Byleth’s arm shot out, pulling Linhardt towards her. Sylvain found himself drawn into a mass hug, with their Professor in the center. Someone’s hand was resting in his hair--and he really hoped it wasn’t Linhardt’s. Even if it was...well, that was fine too. He tightened one arm around Byleth, twining the other behind her back to reach for Mercedes’ shoulder, and sighed. 

  
Sometimes you won, and got everything you ever dreamed of. Sometimes you were still sad anyway. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Obi Wan Kenobi voice* Hello there
> 
> So apparently I've been spelling "Faerghus" wrong this whole-ass time. Go me. XD
> 
> I might have mentioned it before, but I have a twitter account now! Feel free to come say hello.  
> [@AgneasArrow1](https://twitter.com/AgneasArrow1). I specialize in being rather lurky in groups but excessively friendly one on one. 
> 
> Our music this time was chosen by Ingrid, ["Alligator"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NunAl4BRVx8) by Of Monsters and Men.
> 
> UPDATE 02/26: Hello! I know it's been forever and a day. I've been working on a *very* long research project and subsequent paper for my degree program. I just wanted to drop in, in case anybody is reading, and say that the fic is *not* dead! I'm just a sad history student who's brain has been solely occupied by samurai for the last month and a half, but an update is on the way! <3


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